


Where You Belong

by Missgoldy



Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Intimidation, Kissing, Loss, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Only Shadows Ahead, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Stalking, Team as Family, Trauma, Trust Issues, Witness Protection, Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/pseuds/Missgoldy
Summary: Time seems to stop.Linka remains seated, crying quietly, and he reaches for her hand and squeezes it gently.Nothing could have prepared them for this.They remain where they are, quietly tucked away in the corner, glancing at their long-lost friends as they settle into their seats, partly obscured by oblivious diners.Wheeler takes in a deep breath. He risks another glance, not quite sure what to expect, but knowing something isn’t right…Because they look miserable.Absolutely miserable.A companion piece to "Only Shadows Ahead".Linka/Wheeler
Relationships: Linka/Wheeler (Captain Planet)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 16





	1. Twelve

His hands are big.

That’s the clearest memory she has of her father, a big man with a big, booming voice, and the recollection of her own small hand clutched loosely within his. The calloused and discoloured skin is a testament to his profession, a layer of grime existing beneath his nails that always seemed to have left an indelible stain.

He’s a gentle giant, and she looks up to him with a level of hero worship. Her father is warm and open and loving, with a gregarious laugh that fills the room.

Her father, so solid and indestructible.

A man who can lift her one handed without even breaking a sweat, who gives the biggest bear hugs. A man who breaks firewood from the forest with his bare hands, who has to duck beneath the doorframe whenever he enters the room, cursing loudly when he misjudges the height and thumps his head on one of the many low-hanging beams within their house.

She has only fragmented recollections of her mother, God rest her soul. Once beautiful, the strain of chronic illness had left her looking perpetually tired in the few photographs that remained, the ones displayed around their modest home. The ones that remind her of what a traditional, nuclear family should look like.

They don’t have much, but they have enough. A warm kitchen, adequate food and a doting grandmother bustling around the stove. Having moved in last year to help out, her beloved Nona is cooking up a storm, the scent of roasted meat and potatoes wafting through the house.

Linka’s father arrives home late tonight, well after the meal has been served. She’s already in bed dressed in her pyjamas, under the covers with a tattered copy of a Grimm’s fairy tale balanced against her chest, listening for those little trivial details that signal his arrival.

Her father will abide by the same self-imposed rules each night. He’ll remove his shoes at the door and trudge straight toward the bathroom, the rusted pipes wailing plaintively as he showers, washing the dirt and debris from his body. He’ll change into a tracksuit and return to the kitchen, and Linka’s grandmother will produce a plate from the oven, ready to eat.

The dining chair will scuff against the tiles as her father sinks down into it. He’ll scoff his food quickly, regaling his mother-in-law with the events of the day, their voices bouncing down the hallway toward her room, bright and animated. He will eventually clear the plates and Linka will soon hear the heavy tread of his feet on the floorboards as he makes his way to her room first.

She knows how it goes, delighting in this pattern of events, night after night. He will sink down onto the side of the mattress, tutting quietly at whatever book is clutched between her fingers, chuckling at his _umnitsa,_ his clever girl. He will tuck her in and kiss her forehead, before his hulking figure ambles toward Mishka’s room.

Her father, so solid and indestructible.

Tonight is no different.

He ducks under her doorway, and his face lights up at the sight of her, awake and waiting patiently for him. Just like times before, he perches himself on the edge of her bed. Tonight, he chastises her choice in bedtime reading material, warning Linka that she’ll suffer nightmares if she continues reading this garbage, this _musor_. They talk for a few moments and he kisses her goodnight. His big hands remove the book, placing it on her bedside table and ruffling her hair gently, before lumbering back out her door again.

Linka finds comfort in this daily routine. There’s a beautiful synchronicity to these events, and she’s not prepared for the day when the weary tread of his work boots fades, relegated only to memory.

She’s not ready when this beloved routine suddenly grinds to a halt.

* * *

She’s dressed in her Sunday best, clutching tightly to Mishka’s hand as they make their way down the aisle of the church. She halts stiffly beside the priest, eye level with the base of a mahogany casket and unable to drag her forlorn gaze from it. She’s not tall enough to see the dead man lying inside, but she feels an inexplicable urge to look, to see him one last time.

The service has ended, yet the priest drones on, issuing heartfelt apologies and spouting phrases such as “the lord’s work’ and ‘called home’, yet these words do little to bring comfort.

Mishka nods his head in response, sombre and quiet, himself just a boy of seventeen, on the verge of adulthood and burdened by this sudden, unexpected responsibility. They’re discussing the crematorium procedures, and Linka expels a shaky breath as they refer to ‘the body’, as if death has rendered her father obsolete and undeserving of a name or a past or a soul.

Linka takes advantage of her brother’s distraction and tugs herself free, clutching the rim of the casket and rising up on her tiptoes, craning her neck in order to see.

She catches a glimpse of her father — the crisp white shirt, freshly laundered and loose across his torso. The make-up job is adequate, although the morticians couldn’t hide the skull depression that caved in the front of his forehead, nor can they justify the heinous tweed cap they’ve placed upon his head in an effort to conceal it. Her father had never worn a hat in his life, and it grieves her to see him in one now. It looks almost trivial.

His arms are folded over his abdomen, his hands clasped together, one on top of the other. Those hands that conveyed such strength and power and security, now cold and lifeless, the knuckles clenched, the skin already greying with the morbidity of death and decay.

She leans in further, stifling a sob, reaching out to touch his cold face, and Mishka pulls her aside, startled, ever the protective older brother. Wrapping his arms around her, he guides her away, followed closely by Nona, who weeps just as hard for Linka’s father than she did for her own daughter five years prior.

Her father is interred a week later, beside his wife on a cold winter’s day, housed within a small crypt shared amongst their wealthier ancestors. Linka stands by Mishka’s side, clinging hard to him, burying her face into his chest, and he wraps an arm around her, hugging her fiercely to him.

They don’t stay long.

They pay their respects and leave quickly, passing the next group of mourners entering, clad in black and moving slowly. There are another two ceremonies scheduled after this one — another two grieving families, burying their respective husbands, sons or brothers killed in the same accident.

Linka’s eyes remain downcast, operating on autopilot until they’re back home again. She returns to her room despite her grandmother’s protestations and sits on the edge of her bed, listless and grieving.

Eyeing the Grimm fairy tale still lying askew on her bedside table, she stares at it for a while, before her anger gets the better of her. Grabbing the tattered book, she staggers to her feet and hurls it against the wall in a fit of fury.

* * *

Her parents sleep, eternal and rested, oblivious to the upheaval about to taint their children’s lives.

The vultures circle.

Five years older than Linka, Mishka goes straight to work, toiling in the same environment that ultimately killed their father. Still, he’s on minimum pay due to his age and they can’t pay the bills. The bank eventually forecloses on her parents’ home, thrusting them back into her Grandmother’s home; a small ramshackle cabin on the edge of town, worth a quarter of the land it sits upon.

Linka continues her schooling, trying to push aside the memory of her father, his gregarious laugh and his big, warm hands. She becomes withdrawn and quiet, preferring her own company, ignoring the stares and the pointing in the playground during meal breaks, and the whispers in her direction.

‘ _Sirota_ ’ they say, between giggles, as if the loss of two parents at the tender age of twelve is an insult to _them_ , let alone to her.

The quest for knowledge has been dampened somewhat, but the curiosity remains.

* * *

Nona teaches her to cook.

When she’s not at school, they spend their days in the kitchen, listening to her grandmothers’ old records and bustling over a hot stove. They cook hearty beef stroganoff and kotleti, pelmeni and golubtsy, complete with chunky potato salads and steaming custard puddings.

Sometimes they wander around the overgrown backyard while waiting for the food to finish cooking, with the sun setting behind the mountains and the forthcoming chill of winter already settling within deep their bones. Nona picks fresh herbs from the garden, and Linka checks the canary cages, tending to the bird feeders, refilling the seed containers and checking the water levels.

Sometimes they talk, and Linka sits at the cramped kitchen table, enraptured, as her grandmother tells her stories of Linka’s mother. Her mother, who loved to dance and was a voracious reader, much like herself. A woman who dreamed big and loved hard, before her light was extinguished in a haze of lethargy and chemotherapy treatments.

Sometimes they dance, twirling around the kitchen and doing a western jive to Elvis Presley songs, laughing and cackling. Mishka shakes his head at the buffoonery as he arrives home, rolling his eyes with good-natured humor as he dumps his bag and heads for the shower — in essence, repeating the same routine followed by his father only six months prior.

Today, Linka sits on the kitchen floor, quiet and content, while her Nona’s fingers thread gently through her hair, fashioning her thick waves into a fancy French braid.

Those hands — which bring such care and comfort — are old and frail, now. They tremble somewhat with each precise movement, and Linka sighs, resting her cheek on her grandmother’s knee, dreading the day when those hands will also become relegated to a distant memory.

* * *

Slinging her school bag over her shoulder, Linka takes a detour home.

She heads out the front gates of her school and wanders along the dirt road, cutting through the Zubarev family paddock. The way forward is evident; a trampled, winding path cutting through waist-high brambles and long grasses that leave a sticky residue when they brush against her clothing.

A lone bull stares her down from a distance, taking shelter beneath a copse of trees. She ignores his presence, picking up the pace until she reaches the outskirts of the cemetery. The field is bordered by a stained white picket fence that backs onto the church, the palings broken and missing in sections, in a state of disrepair since the local church and council continue to argue over who is responsible for its maintenance.

Squeezing through a gap in the fence, Linka steps carefully around the graves, taking the time as always to read the details etched in stone, the names and dates, some of which have already crumbled beyond recognition, their identities lost to time and the elements.

She slows near one particular section, eyeing the neat rows of crosses close together, men, women and children who succumbed to the 1920’s Russian famine. Nona said they were buried in paupers graves due to the sheer number of unidentified individuals afflicted.

Linka tends to steer clear of this area, nervous and ill at ease. She’s seen old photographs of the destruction caused by starvation — the distended bellies and the vacant expressions. She’s seen the images of families selling the body parts of their dead children for money and heard stories of siblings forced to eat the flesh of their deceased brothers and sisters.

The Soviet Union has a history of the macabre, of death and suffering. Derailments, stampedes, nuclear disasters, political assassinations, drought and biological ‘accidents’. Tragedy seems to be a part of her heritage.

She hurries on, knowing the light will soon be leaving. Mid-calf length weeds have sprouted around the gravestones and memorial plaques in the north corner, but she knows the way like the back of her hand, heading straight for the unattractive, gothic-looking stone monstrosity, housed on the edge of the field.

“ _Zdravstvuy, mama. Privet, papa_.”

She sinks to her knees and gets to work, clearing the weeds with her bare hands for the next few minutes, talking about her day to a flat stone wall that’s incapable of talking back. There’s a row of small metal plaques running down the front, each engraved with thick, Russian script, a reminder of who lies dead and crumbling within the padlocked confines. Her parent’s names are etched onto the final two panels, close to the bottom.

Linka pulls the cuff of her grey school sweater over her wrist and polishes them with the fabric, doing her best to remove the dirt and stains already corroding the metal.

The last order of business is her favorite.

Digging around in her school bag, Linka pulls out two books, placing the first one at the base of the wall, beneath the plaques. There’s an assortment of odds and ends already gathered there: books, handmade clay figurines, letters and personal possessions, collected during her day to day travels and deemed important enough to leave, an offering of sorts.

Another Grimm fairy tale gets added to the pile, and she tidies the area up, rearranging things and removing a few odds and ends, lest the makeshift memorial start attracting unwanted attention from bored local kids and the inebriated homeless who occasionally seek shelter within the church.

“ _Proshchay_ ,” she whispers, kissing her fingers and touching the crypt walls. Hearing the usual silence in return, she gathers her things and pushes herself to her feet. Clutching her bag to her chest, she starts making the short journey home.


	2. Sixteen

The air is bitterly cold, her fingers numb, shoved deep within the pockets of the bulky coat that hangs loose off her small frame. It’s a puffy white hand-me-down from her cousin Lllya, one of many that stock Linka’s wardrobe. Two sizes too large, the collar juts out well above her chin and jaw, but it’s warm and it’s thankfully waterproof.

She walks faster, maintaining a brisk pace, navigating her way through the ice, her feet treading the path of least resistance. The bottom of her jeans are soaked through and she can feel the cold air circulating around her ankles. Her breath fogs gently around her.

The neighbourhood kids streak past on their rusted bikes, laughing and shrieking. The wheels hit the muddy pools of water with a wet _thunk_ and she leaps aside to avoid getting splashed. There are no sidewalks here, just a dirt and grass track buried beneath several inches of grimy snow.

She skirts alongside the stained walls of the apartment block – one of six in a row, each with identical shattered windows and scrawled graffiti, adding to the general ambience of this place. The closest main town to her village is a festering eyesore of stray dogs, decrepit public housing and poorly-planned infrastructure. 

She walks faster, thumbing her mother’s wedding ring around her finger, a habit that never fails to calm her agitated mind. She knows the way to the community centre like the back of her hand.

There’s not much to do here for teenagers like herself. The neighbourhood kids are all left to their own devices most afternoons, and sooner or later they all end up converging in the same place on a Friday night after school has finished. In some ways, it’s expected of her, even when the preferred option would be to curl up in bed with a good book, or to persevere with reformatting her hard drive and debugging binary codes.

It’s with a resigned reluctance that she rounds the corner and pushes her way in through the double-doors. She shrugs out of her coat and heads for the usual table, greeting her two closest friends with a tired smile. Tinsel and gaudy plastic baubles decorate the room and there’s a small tree in the corner with flashing lights. It’s loud and raucous and warm, at odds with the near-arctic conditions outside.

The community centre houses a pool table and two pinball machines, hooked up and utterly neglected since the new owner didn’t possess the foresight to know that American dollars were required to actually operate them. There’s a television in the corner, and the room is slowly filling with gangly teenagers and the forced, somewhat awkward conversations that soon follow.

By eight pm, the western music is pumping, a conscious effort to rebel against the soviet ideals deeply ingrained by their parents and the government. She’s coaxed into dancing by yet another hopeful suitor; this time a tall, earnest boy two years her senior, complete with the aforementioned stilted dialogue and clumsy attempts to feel her up somewhat as they sway to the music.

Spurred on by the leers and lewd encouragement of his friends nearby, the boy leans in and presses his thin lips to hers. She stands rigidly, shutting her eyes and willing the moment to be over, wanting the floor to open up and swallow her whole, because she feels nothing.

And she finds herself wondering if there’s more to life than this. She wants a higher purpose — more than what her oppressive culture has to offer, and more than the limited opportunities afforded to her by this dull, impoverished village she calls home. More than her two friends, who aspire to marry young and bear the requisite two point four children, keeping a neat and tidy home and catering to their partners every whim.

But Linka won’t settle for mediocrity.

She’ll eventually extract herself from the boy’s eager embrace and head home early, making apologies and thinly veiled excuses. Her mother’s ring will once again twist around her finger with an almost aggressive tenacity during the return journey as she curses her lack of assertiveness.

Nona is seated in her usual seat by the fire, dozing, and Linka presses a fond kiss on top of her grandmother’s head as she passes, retiring to her bed and her books and her birds.

But within a few months, there’s a shiny new piece of jewellery added to Linka’s meagre collection, and she turns her back on that life for good, leaving the bleak, depressing town behind her.

* * *

She fills her hut with modest possessions, an attempt to establish meaning amidst the complete upheaval occurring in her life right now. Mementoes from home line her windowsill: figurines, childhood dolls, placed in neat, orderly rows. They’re equally spaced… because, admittedly, she’s always been obsessive compulsive about the finer details in life.

It takes a few weeks until she’s truly comfortable living and working in such close quarters with her new colleagues.

Kwame is quiet and thoughtful; a hard and diligent worker. He’s a great listener and a natural leader, and the pair spend many hours conversing about their respective lives. They have a lot in common. She’s content in his company and respects his quiet authority.

Linka establishes an easy friendship with Gi, regardless of their initial lack of common interests and the difference in their respective upbringings. She’s a lovely girl, kind and loyal — and somewhat boy mad.

Gi maintains a close relationship with her family back home, calling them daily, and Linka quietly envies her, Gi with her two affectionate, loving - and living - parents.

Ma-Ti is a mere child, however his quiet tenacity and ability to live independently surpasses her own survival skills. He demonstrates a wealth of knowledge and empathy beyond his years, and she sometimes wonders if they are only scratching the surface of Ma-Ti’s perceived powers.

Sometimes she wonders if Ma-Ti senses more than what he lets on.

And then there’s Wheeler.

Hot-headed and tempestuous, cocky and insolent. His blue-eyed stare is direct and unflinching — as are the suggestive comments thrown in Linka’s direction at a relentless pace. It’s something she’s unused to, coming from a culture where male restraint is the norm.

Some days she can barely keep up, her head spinning at the rapid-fire delivery. The contradiction isn’t lost on her: that his disarming grin makes her heart flutter, her knees wobble… and occasionally, causes the urge to want to punch him in the face.

The good far outweighs the bad, however. He’s hilarious, brutally honest and charming when he’s chooses to be. He also never shuts up and is extremely easy on the eye. As Gi likes to say, he’s the gift that keeps on giving.

* * *

She’s quite and bookish, a keen observer of people, and her teammates are no exception. The missions start to blend into one another, and she discovers more about her new-found friends.

Prior to Hope Island, Kwame had never seen a lightbulb. He remains transfixed at the sight, and Linka still catches him occasionally, standing in the centre of the common room and staring avidly at the warm glow of the filament for what seems like an eternity, marvelling at the ingenuity of the western world.

She discovers that Gi prefers sleeping closer to the floor. In the midst of getting to know one another, Linka watches in amazement as Gi leaps to her feet one night and drags her hefty mattress to the floor one night, grunting with the effort.

Linka helps her remake it, and together they lay back with their arms folded behind their heads, laughing and giggling at the strange circumstances they’ve found themselves in.

The bed frame disappears the next morning, much to Gi’s amusement.

Wheeler doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He spends a lot of time at the beach, swimming and surfing, seeming to steer clear of the rest of them while he navigates his own new reality. He runs along the sand most afternoons, shirtless and glistening with sweat as the sun sets behind him.

Ma-Ti bounces around between the four of them, seeking solace, perhaps seeking a role model. It’s not long before Ma-Ti makes his apparent choice. He becomes Wheeler’s constant shadow, listening and learning what he can from the older American.

* * *

At times, they’re left to fend for themselves, working one another out in this strange situation they’ve found themselves in. They quickly fall into a routine, sharing cooking and cleaning responsibilities, however they all bring a varying degree of skills to the table.

Linka finds herself to be the preferred choice when it comes to preparing meals. Her grandmother’s diligent cooking lessons have paid off, and she feels a deep sense of pride when complimented at the end of a hearty meal.

She tests out her recipes, and Kwame starts a vegetable patch, growing fresh produce and reducing the essential items they need to gather from the mainland. Gi introduces the group to Korean delicacies and Ma-Ti is adamant about blessing any meat that arrives on the table, continuing the indigenous traditions that have served his culture through many generations. 

They discover that Wheeler is good with his hands. Despite his young age, he’s more than competent with building, tools and repair work, and he has a technical knowledge that far surpasses the others.

They undertake supply runs once a fortnight, between missions when possible. They travel in pairs using a roster, using shiny debit cards that appeared in their huts on the first day. No one is sure where the money is coming from, but they choose to leave that particular question unanswered for now.

* * *

Linka, who doesn’t like to admit she can’t do anything, finds that she can’t work the oven.

She’s persevered with the stovetop for too long, and she has no choice but to attempt to operate the bottom section of the appliance. A deep dish of _chicken orlov_ is ready to bake to creamy perfection. Linka peers at the knobs and switches, twisting the dials, but it just won’t turn on.

“It’s a gas stove,” a voice drawls behind her, and she glances up, startled as a pair of hands squeeze her waist, guiding her aside.

Wheeler has returned from one of his running sessions. He’s shirtless again, a damp towel draped around his neck and his hair wet and dishevelled. Dropping to his knees beside her, he pulls open the oven door and reaches in with his ring finger. “Pilot light needs to be lit.”

“Should you be doing that?” she utters, hearing the hiss of the gas.

“Probably not,” he replies. “Ignitor’s not working.”

“Do not blow us up,” she says nervously, still clutching the casserole dish to her chest, as if the bechamel sauce will provide adequate protection from a gas-lit explosion.

“Hell, no,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t wanna mess up that pretty face of yours.”

“Oh.”

“My parents used to have one of these,” he grunts, ducking aside as the low puff of ignition signals success. “It was a complete bastard to light.”

“Do you cook at all, Wheeler?” she asks, pushing the dish toward the back and closing the door.

“Aw, hell no,” he laughs. “I’m capable of burnin’ water, honey.”

And with that, he stands, sauntering away toward his hut, and she watches him go, secretly marvelling at how effortless and composed he always seems to be.

They’re a motley crew of different personalities, and Linka falls easily into life with her new colleagues. She starts to realise that there is a life outside of the confines of a poor Russian village.

* * *

For every success, there’s a failure, and Linka is hard on herself for each and every one of them. She’s been captured more times than she likes to admit, requiring help from the others.

Her comfort zone hasn’t so much been tested, but obliterated. She’s gone from an introverted small-town schoolgirl to piloting aircraft, conducting raids on petty criminals and unleashing torrents of wind gusts toward corrupt officials and wannabe criminals.

The fumes are still potent as they prepare to leave this particular mission, the residue of acid rain still invading her nostrils and yellowing her clothing. 

Linka glances up to see Verminous Skumm watching her from behind a doorway. He smiles at her, waggling his clawed fingers and winking salaciously, as if he’s privy to a secret she’s not.

She hurries away, the hairs standing on the back of her neck, praying that she won’t come across him again.

* * *

The English language continues to evade her. Certain expressions and mannerisms are foreign to her, while the correct words she’s searching for are often lost in translation and usually corrected by Wheeler, with a tone of amusement that irritates her.

Wheeler, who finally made a definitive move on her in Thailand last month — despite the interruption from a twenty-foot mechanical dragon beast hiding in the shadows.

She’s confused and bewildered. Linka frets for him when he’s gone, but continues to dodge and weave his advances when he’s there, shying away from further contact and resorting to admonishment to hide what she already knows but won’t admit to anybody, especially to him....

That she’s scared and still young and not ready.

So Linka continues to dodge and weave, and Wheeler follows at a safe distance, undeterred.

* * *

She tries to fly today, on Laipuno Island; leaping into a raging volcano in an attempt to rescue someone, and she fails miserably. Another dent in the armor, another chink in the pride she wears like a veil, shrouded and protected.

She’s windswept and pissed off when Captain Planet finally sets her down, and later, when Wheeler makes yet another smart-ass comment about ‘fucking up the landing’, she bites back, screaming at him in Russian until Kwame and Gi pull them apart.

The following day, Linka and Gi swim in a secluded section of the bay. Gi sits on her surfboard, lithe and ever agile, bobbing along the waves while Linka spends the next hour funnelling upward. 

Ten… twenty… thirty feet up in the air, she tries desperately to maintain her balance and momentum before crashing back down again, the ocean waters breaking her fall.

But she resurfaces each time, spluttering and coughing, before aiming her ring and trying again.

Because she’s nothing if not persistent.

* * *

Linka coughs hard, courtesy of the dust and sediment lying low in the air. She’s aware of the thunk of metal expanding and the odd rattle of coal dislodging from the top of the heap. 

A small lump clatters toward her, and she whips her head to the side, narrowly avoiding a collision with the side of her face. Her arms remain buried beneath the coal, trapped against her sides.

She’s filthy and uncomfortable and hot, but most of all, she’s cursing the fact that this morning’s spontaneous sail boarding venture seemed like a good idea at the time.

She’s worried about her current predicament. She’s worried about Hope Island, now that she knows Blight’s plans. 

She also doesn’t like to admit it, but she’s embarrassed about being captured yet again, and not looking forward to the ribbing she’ll no doubt receive from both Gi and Wheeler. The last concern doesn’t really fit with her ecological warrior stance, but her personal sense of pride may never fully recover.

Her skin itches deep beneath the rubble, somewhere under the sole of her foot, and she can swear she can feel something crawling around down there, unsure if there’s really an insect skittering around her ankles or whether it’s just in her mind.

A mechanical grinding noise startles her, and Doctor Blight’s voice can be heard echoing somewhere above her, cackling maniacally. Linka sighs, her shoulders slumped, defeated by circumstances beyond her control.

She starts to nod off, overcome by the fumes and the heat, until voices call down to her, distant and urgent.

Gi and Kwame have found her. She glances up helplessly, taking in their soaked clothes as they make their way down. They drag her from the rubble.

A few hours later, when the mission is completed and they’re home safe, Linka heads straight for her hut. The cicadas chirp in the evening breeze as she washes the soot and coal stains from her body, scrubbing her limbs until her skin turns pink and blotchy from the effort.

* * *

“Hello,” she coos, clicking her tongue and stepping inside the cage, delighted at the flurry of feathers and chirping going on around her. “I have missed you!”

She dithers for a while, cleaning out the base and tending to the bird box at the base of the cage; the babies mewling within.

“You have been busy,” she says, her comment directed at the male bouncing around on a high rung, his feathers brighter than his female companions.

She finishes her cleaning, and closes and locks the cage, heading back to the cottage and enjoying the scent of dinner cooking in the oven.

“They have missed you,” Nona says, seated in her usual chair by the oven. There’s a shawl draped around her shoulders and a vinyl is spinning on the record player, the spindle scratching comfortingly.

“You know they have CD players, now,” Linka teases, dropping down to sit at her grandmothers’ feet.

“I know,” she replies, her hands gathering Linka’s long hair and running a paddle brush through the knots. “I prefer the sound.”

“They are easier to use,” Linka sighs. She’s drowsy, enjoying her grandmother’s fingers threading through her hair, parting sections in readiness for a thick braid. 

“Really?”

“So I have heard.”

“Do not be so quick to embrace new things, Linka. Sometimes the old ways are better.”

“I know,” she murmurs, flopping an arm across Nona’s lap and resting her head there.

“Are they treating you well,” Nona asks.

“Well enough.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Linka closes her eyes. She doesn’t answer.


	3. Eighteen

A thin cotton blanket drapes her body. Linka lies, curled up on her side on a portable cot. She alternates between shivering and sweating as the drugs leave her system, flushed out by the fluids in the IV bag hooked onto a pole above her head.

Boris’ image is burnt into the back of her eyelids, red-hot and searing, his face a mask of pain. When she closes her eyes, she sees him, but when she opens them, it’s so much worse. The air stings her face, her throat is parched and the room pulses around her.

A headache pounds deep within her temples, and the devil is with her, here in this room. The devil, the creature behind her pain; the master of mayhem and manipulation. His pointed face is cold and cunning, and he holds a perfect little pink pill that’s just beyond her reach.

Welcome to servitude, the devil says, his crimson mouth curled into a wicked grin.

Go on. Just take it. Just one more.

She fumbles blindly for it, just wanting a taste. Just a small morsel to take the edge off, to make everything bearable again. To slip back into an existence where she doesn’t care so deeply, doesn’t worry so greatly and doesn’t suffer so silently.

An existence where her past no longer controls her future, clouding her judgement and rendering her incapable of experiencing a life worth living.

She calls Boris’ name, delirious and grieving for yet another family member lost to misfortune, begging for more Bliss to take the pain away, but her friends remain stony faced and quiet, fidgeting beside her.

It’s another loss. Another death. Another dent in the armor, another chink in the pride she wears like a veil, shrouded and protected, but now wrapped tighter around her neck and slowly strangling the life out of her.

Someone clutches her outstretched bliss-seeking fingers. Another hand descends, smoothing her hair away from her forehead, talking to her, reassuring her as she slips into a restless sleep.

* * *

Rubbing her eyes, she blinks at the bright screen tiredly. It’s after midnight and Linka is browsing documents she shouldn’t technically have access to. A cup of tea lies cold beside her, and a small bug has drowned itself in the stagnant contents.

Suicide by tea, an apt ending for one of the many insects that breed within the tropical conditions here.

She runs a hand through her hair, yawning, before getting down to business, bypassing the server and exploiting the usual weaknesses and website vulnerabilities.

“How are you going?”

A voice diverts her attention. Kwame stands awkwardly by her bed. “Sorry Linka. I saw your light on. I should have knocked —”

She waves him off. “It is fine.”

He takes a seat on her mattress, looking her over worriedly, and she turns back to the screen, self-conscious, knowing how bad she looks. Her hair is matted and unkept and her skin is pallid, dark circles under her eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“I am just finishing —”

He smiles wanly. “That is not what I asked.”

She chews on her bottom lip, staring at the DOS prompt flashing on the screen, waiting for a command. She spins in her chair and faces him, giving him a tired smile.

“I am fine,” she says, brushing her hair aside and slumping further into her seat. “Much better. I am having some trouble sleeping —"

“That is understandable.”

“My body seeks freedom, but my brain will not allow me to rest,” she says, yawning again. “Does that make sense?”

“Freedom?” he asks, considering her statement for a moment. “Why do you say freedom?”

She frowns. “Maybe that is the incorrect word?”

“I think it is probably the perfect word.” He nods toward the monitor. “Are you getting somewhere?”

“I have Plunder’s email account bugged. I have located some property deeds and I now have access to his financial records —”

“You can do that?” Kwame looks impressed.

She shrugs, embarrassed. “I intercepted Plunders banking communications and have changed his passwords. I have also changed his contact details. I hope to have at least a few days before he discovers the intrusion and —”

“Before he locks you back out?”

She nods. “I am downloading as we speak.”

“You are amazing,” he says, his voice full of wonderment. “That is truly remarkable.”

“It is just simple programming,” she ventures, blushing hard.

“Take the compliment, my friend,” he says, watching her fondly. “You have earned it, after all.”

He stands and places his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Picking up her cold cup of tea, Kwame makes his way to the door, and she busies herself with shutting down her computer and gathering her night clothes.

“Linka?”

“Yes?”

“You spoke of freedom earlier?” Kwame is framed in the doorway, his eyes deep and compassionate. He smiles at her gently. “A wise man once said that freedom is what you do with what has been done to you.”

Giving her no chance to respond, he closes her door quietly behind him, leaving her standing in the centre of her hut, a soft nightgown folded over her arm and a curious expression on her face.

* * *

“You keep birds,” Ma-Ti asks one day, sipping his soft drink from their makeshift barstool in tiny bodega in Central America. They’re perched at the counter-top, their legs swinging in the breeze, waiting for the others to return from refuelling the geo-cruiser.

Linka swallows her mouthful of Coca-Cola. “ _Da_. I mean, yes. My family used to breed canaries.”

“Really?”

“It was my mother’s hobby, really. She would raise them for my father’s benefit.”

“Really?”

“I love the sound of their little voices,” she sighs. “They sing, you know? They can even be trained to repeat melodies.”

“Did you keep any other birds? Or only canaries.”

Linka takes another sip of her Coke, considering his question. “My brother found an injured hummingbird once.”

“They can fly backward, can they not?”

She nods. “Yes. We only kept him for a few days, though. We released him back into the wild.”

“So no other animals I should be aware of?” he teases. “No fifty foot mechanical metal birds in your backyard, then?" Ma-Ti says sagely, and Linka laughs.

“No. No, just canaries,” she replies.

“I think —”

“I set them free, once,” she says softly. “I opened the cage and tried to free them.”

“Really?”

Linka nods, grimacing at the memory. “I was angry with my father. I cannot even remember why. I ran outside and opened every door, shouting at them to leave.”

“What happened?”

“Most stayed where they were,” she sighs. “And the ones that did escape simply stayed close to the others, in nearby trees.” She chuckles. “I always thought they were probably waiting for the little girl throwing a tantrum to run out of steam before they went back in.”

Ma-Ti considers her words. “Why do you think they did that?”

“I do not know,” she says, at a loss to explain.

“Perhaps they preferred their gilded cage,” he says, getting to his feet and stretching. “Our ride is here.”

He heads out, lowering his baseball cap over his eyes as the solid gleam of the Geocruiser comes into view, and Linka follows, deep in thought.

* * *

“Where are your little buddies,” Argos bleak snarls. He’s nabbed her again, catching her below deck, snooping around in the crew cabins of a cargo ship leased in Plunder’s name. “You gonna cooperate, Blondie?”

“I have seen the cargo hold,” she spits furiously as she scrambles over an unmade bed in an attempt to avoid his reach. “We know you are importing drugs! We know what you are doing —”

“Do you, now?” he challenges. He bends low, charging into her and knocking her off her feet, sending her crashing to the floor with a pained shriek.

He grabs her wrists, looping the rope tight until it’s biting into her skin. Tying a rough knot, he lifts her to her feet and pulls her from the room, dragging her down the corridor. She puts up a fight, and he resorts to grabbing her around the waist and hauling her the rest of the distance.

“Get off me!” she screams, and he ignores her, wrestling her through a heavy metal door and slamming it closed behind them. She glances around, finding herself in a room filled with engines and pistons and grinding machinery. The room is full of steam and the noise from the expelling air is ear splitting.

He lifts her kicking and screaming, forcing her bound wrists over a pipe jutting out from the wall and steps away. Her body drops heavily and Bleak leaves her hanging, her toes barely able to touch the floor.

“YOU CAN HANG HERE FOR A LITTLE WHILE, YA LITTLE PLANET PUNK!” he bellows close to her ear, over the sound of the pumping engines. “AT LEAST UNTIL ….”

His voice trails off as he stalks away, slipping through the door and slamming it shut behind him.

“BLEAK!” she shrieks, but her voice disappears into the constant chug of the pistons pumping. A gasket blows somewhere above her head, and she jerks in fright as an explosion of steam fills the room.

“DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

She’s still screaming when Kwame and Ma-Ti find her ten minutes later, and she cowers and trembles in their arms as they spirit her out.

* * *

Mishka passes Linka a plate as she takes a seat at the table beside her grandmother. Nona’s record plays in the background, a chirpy Benny Goodman track crackling in its usual manner. They’d danced to it earlier today, pulling some funky interpretive moves that had them succumbing to peals of laughter.

“You look well, little sister,” Mishka says, passing her a deep dish filled with Chicken Kiev.

“I am well enough,” she replies. “I am happy to be home.”

“We have missed you,” her grandmother says warmly, touching Linka’s cheek fondly.

Linka smiles, scooping a moderate pile of mashed potatoes onto her plate. She glances around the kitchen, basking in the warmth of the stove. “You have changed my bedroom around?”

“Do you mind?” Nona asks, looking worried. “You are so rarely here, I —”

“It makes sense,” she says, reaching for her hand and reassuring her. “I am not here enough to use it. How are things at _Uralasbest_ , Mishka?”

“I have been promoted,” he says. “Junior foreman.”

“That is wonderful,” she replies, delighted. “Oh Mishka, I —”

“It is a small rise in pay,” he says. “More time above ground, at least. I am responsible for a team of nine.”

“Please tell me they have increased their safety standards,” she says, eyeing him carefully as she eats. “They promised to employ a safety officer and provide more funding to improve the equipment after papa —”

“There is talk of the contract changing hands,” Mishka says. “A few interested corporations. We have new drills and excavators. Regular servicing. I feel safe.”

Linka nods, appeased for the moment. She’d feel better if he wasn’t anywhere near a narrow set of tunnels miles below the ground, but the mine is the only source of employment in their area — other than subsistence farming, which depends heavily on the elements and is anything but a consistent stream of income.

“Many changes,” Mishka sighs, pushing his empty plate aside and stretching his arms above his head. “You would not recognise _Asbest_. A big supermarket has been built beside the town hall. There is talk of a movie theatre.”

“Typical,” she grumbles. “As soon as I leave, the place gets interesting.”

Her comment earns a chuckle from Mishka. “True.”

“There is a housing development,” Nona adds. “Over the mountain. They are saying my land will be… what is the word, Alexei?”

Mishka glances at her quizzically but doesn’t correct her. He sighs, reaching for a bread roll. “They are saying the land here might be rezoned for multiple homes. She may double or triple the value of the land.”

“That is wonderful!” Linka says, stunned. “Will you sell?”

“I will stay for now,” Nona says, standing to clear the plates despite Linka’s protestations. “I am happy here.”

The sound of plates and dishes soon fill the silence, and Linka pointedly makes eye contact with her brother.

 _Alexei?_ She mouths at Mishka, and he shrugs, seemingly unsurprised.

The next day, Linka and her brother visit their parents, navigating the bulls and brambles and sticky grasses together, heading straight for the crypt. She takes a seat on the ground, a well-worn patch of dirt by now. Linka unloads the latest assortment of items from her travels while Mishka picks a handful of wild flowers before joining her. He uses the stem to thread a loop around the base of the bloom and pulls it tight, sending it pinging toward Linka.

She bats it away easily. “Really?”

“Yes,” he says, in all seriousness, and sends another yellow flower bullet flying in her direction. Mishka eventually tosses the empty stalks away and peers down at her newest collection with interest. He rifles through the pile. “What on earth —" he starts. “Where did you get all —"

“Fridge magnet from Paris. Cloth from Milan,” she explains. She points to a small vial filled with sand clutched in Mishka’s hand. “That is from the Sahara Desert.”

“That is amazing, Linka.” He looks suitably impressed. “What is that?”

“A native American fishhook,” Linka explains. “Ma-Ti made it for me.”

She continues arranging everything at the base, sifting through the items that are no longer relevant or have outlived their time in the spotlight while listening to Mishka’s pleasant chatter.

“Nona is not well,” Mishka says finally, leaning back on his hands. “I think dementia is setting in.”

Linka falters, glancing up, her fingers resting on a tattered copy of Wuthering Heights propped beneath her mother’s plaque. “What do you mean?”

“Alexei. I have also been called Stefan and Sasha this week, but it is usually father’s name.”

Linka purses her lips, staring at her father’s plaque and the names scribed so neatly across it. “She is eighty. It had to happen sooner or later.”

He nods, fingering a small buddha figurine with an exposed belly. “It comes and goes. Some weeks she is fine, and other weeks, she is repeating the same story to me three times in one day.”

“Maybe I should come home —” she begins, but Mishka shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly. “No, you are where you are needed.”

She pauses, phrasing her thoughts carefully in her head before proceeding.

“I am not so sure…” She trails off, unsure how to put into words how she is feeling.

“Are you happy there?”

She shrugs, refusing to meet his eyes. “I am content.”

“What does that mean?”

Linka sighs, leaning forward and propping her chin into her palm. “I do not know.”

“You are a creature of habit, Linka,” he chuckles. “You are… what is the word? An introvert. You always have been.”

“I just feel I would be better off —”

“Give things a chance. Do not give up. They would be so proud of you, Mama and Papa —”

“But Mishka, it is selfish of me to —”

“You are doing the most selfless thing I can imagine, Linka. You are saving others. You have the chance of a decent life. There is nothing for you here.”

“But even for a few months —”

“You are safe, yes?”

“ _Da_ , of course I am, but you are here all alone with her and —"

“It is fine,” he says, and Linka knows the conversation is over.

She lowers herself down onto her elbows, quiet and thoughtful, Mishka’s words doing little to calm the butterflies swirling in her stomach.


	4. Nineteen

“Is this stuff gonna turn me purple,” Wheeler grunts, his voice encased within the breathing apparatus. “Cuz if it does, I’ll be lodging a complaint with radioactive reject and his little interstellar buddy —”

“Zarm sure knows how to throw a party,” Gi laments. She lurches about beneath the shower, the protective suit huge and unwieldly on her small frame as she washes the radioactive residue from her suit. “I’d be more worried about it rendering you sterile, Wheeler.”

“Shootin’ blanks is the least of my problems right now,” he grumbles. “Hurry up, Gi. I’m gettin’ claustrophobic in this thing.”

They’re in a plastic tent, the three of them forced to decontaminate in close quarters. The suits are cumbersome, difficult to navigate, and Linka waits patiently for Gi to finish. It’s hard to judge her position in relation to where her friends are, hard to see since the masks offer limited vision. Linka finds herself having to swivel her whole body around to gauge what’s happening.

“I am next, Yankee,” Linka says, as he lumbers past. She eyes Gi’s retreating figure. “Do not even think about jumping the queue —”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, pushing her aside, and she falls against the flimsy tent walkway with a gasp.

“Hey!” she exclaims, recovering herself and feeling rightly pissed off. She lunges forward with the speed and dexterity of a sumo wrestler. “I was next!”

Wheeler refuses to budge, and a clumsy shoving match ensues. He drags her toward the shower, and she’s shrieking with laughter as his oversized arms wrap tightly around her middle, lifting her off her feet and forcing her beneath the spray.

* * *

They’re sunbaking on the sand, spread out on towels beneath an umbrella that is doing an inefficient job of covering them. The sun and the fresh air are good, and Linka feels at peace, enjoying the quiet time between missions.

Ma-Ti and Kwame are on a supply run, and Wheeler is somewhere in the waves, paddling out in an effort to clear the sharp protrusions offered by the coral reef.

She’s wearing a strappy soft yellow bikini, one purchased from a department store in Europe. It’s a great contrast to her nicely tanning skin, and more revealing than she’s used to, but Gi talked her into it, and Linka likes the way her body looks in it.

“There are beaches near Moscow,” she says, dipping into the bag of potato chips Gi has brought down with her. “I have heard of a few. But none near my hometown.”

“How did you learn to swim?”

“There was an old wooden bridge with a creek beneath it,” she says, her mouth full of food. “That is where I learnt. It was still very cold, though. Our summer temperatures never reach higher than around 25 degrees.”

“Blugh,” Gi shivers. “No thanks.”

“Depending on the water levels, people could jump from the bridge. They had to jump at a certain angle or there was a chance they might hit the sand bank.”

“Did you ever try?”

“No,” she laughs. “No, I was worried about breaking my back… or my neck.”

“You, worried?” Gi teases, “I don’t believe that for a second.”

Linka shoves her lightly, grinning. “My brother and his friends would jump every _letom._ We called it ‘ _pryzhok very’._ The leap of faith.”

They talk some more, lazy and relaxed until a shadow passes over them and the sun’s warm rays disappear behind a solid wall of muscle.

“Hey, what gives?” Gi grumbles, sitting up and shielding her eyes at the unwanted intrusion. “Stop hoggin’ the —"

“Wipeout,” Wheeler grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys see that?”

Linka sits up too, glancing briefly at the hard lines of his body and his muscular arms. He’s wet and dripping, and she looks down at her hands quickly, feeling her face redden and hating herself for it.

“You’re from New York,” Gi says, eyeing Wheeler as he tosses his surfboard aside and flops down onto the sand beside them. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” he asks, drying himself with a towel and flicking water over Linka in the process.

“How do you know how to surf?”

“I don’t,” he laughs. “I spend more time off the damn thing than on.”

“You’ve got pretty good balance, though and you know the technique,” she explains. “New York doesn’t exactly have any beaches, so I was just wondering —”

“Camp for underprivileged kids,” he replies, leaning forward and staring at the quietly cresting waves along the shore. “Few years back. My school put my name forward.”

“Really?” Linka asks. “You learnt to surf there?”

“Yeah. Spent three weeks in California by the beach. All expenses paid, funded by some weird charity-religious-group thingy.”

“Are you religious?” Gi asks, and Wheeler snorts in response.

“I say Jesus a lot. Does that count?”

“Probably not,” Gi muses.

“That was nice of them to send you,” Linka offers, and Wheeler chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

“I was a complete shit in high school,” he says. “Teachers probably wanted me out of their hair for a while.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Linka says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, and Wheeler tosses a handful of sand at her.

She grunts with annoyance, peering down the front of her bikini and sweeping sand off the top of her breasts. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, eyeing Linka with an eyebrow raised. He flashes her a cheeky grin. “Want any help with that?”

“I would rather bite my own arm off,” she retorts.

“Pity,” he sighs, getting to his feet and retrieving his surfboard. “Offer’s always there, sweetheart.”

He flings his towel over his shoulder and disappears over the dunes, the board tucked securely under his arm.

“Should have let him help you,” Gi says, grinning.

“He helps plenty of willing women,” Linka grumbles, lying back down and repositioning her body to catch the best sunlight. “I am not blind.”

“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,” Gi laughs. Rolling over to face Linka, she prods her arm lightly, grinning. “But I don’t think it’s my bed he’s interested in.”

* * *

“Tie your shoes, Wheeler,” she says flippantly, unable to disguise the contempt in her voice. “For goodness sake.”

“What are you, my mother?” he retorts, pushing on through the mountainside as the rest of the group struggle to keep up. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the —" 

“It looks like you got dressed in the dark.”

“Stop, you two,” Kwame says warningly.

“My legs are starting to hurt,” Ma-Ti complains, and Linka smiles encouragingly at him. Sometimes they forget he’s just a boy; negotiating his teens and yet to shake off the hormonal damage of puberty.

“It will not be long.”

“Why could we not fly closer?”

“Because they would see us coming a mile off,” Gi sighs. “Besides, Wheeler needs the exercise.”

“Doubtful,” Wheeler grumbles, but it’s an extremely hot day and they’re all feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. “Not when I’m hittin’ the gym five times a week.”

“You are looking a little _flobby_ around the middle, Yankee,” Linka says pointedly, knowing how to provoke him. “Perhaps what Gi says is true.”

“I can bench-press two-hundred pounds without breakin’ a sweat, sweetheart,” he says, thumping his flat stomach. “Nothin’ wrong with my level of fitness.”

“Then would you at least tie your shoes,” she says blisteringly, pointing to his trailing laces, because they’re annoying her more than usual. “I do not wish to be carrying you out of here when you break your neck —”

“Nope.”

“Stop,” Kwame repeats, his voice getting louder with each warning. “You two are —"

“Don’t mind Linka. She’s still pissed because Greedly Junior isn’t returning her calls,” Wheeler says mockingly, throwing a smug smirk over his shoulder, and Linka launches forward and shoves him hard.

“Hey!”

“Stop!” Kwame groans.

“Ugh,” she says, stabbing the ground moodily with a stick. “That is not funny, Wheeler.”

“Still riding around town in his sexy new wheels, no doubt.” Gi laughs. “Dodged a bullet there, Linka.”

“He is still calling me,” Linka laments, swatting a fly away from her face. “Leaving me messages.”

“Are you serious?” Wheeler snorts. “Ah. Dream big, little-big man.”

“Yeah.” Gi rolls her eyes. “The guy abducts you, ties you up and takes you for a forced joyride around town. Nothing spells romance like that.”

“There are some tribes who actually practice this ritual,” Kwame says quietly, beckoning for them to stop and rest ahead “Rwanda. Ethiopia. Kenya.”

“Practice what?” Wheeler stops in the middle of the clearing and reaches for a water bottle. He takes a few large gulps and sinks to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest, out of breath.

“Kidnapping women,” Kwame utters.

“What? Kidnappin’ women and takin’ ‘em for a ride in a gaz-guzzlin’ hunk of shit?”

“No. Abducting young girls from their villages.”

Wheeler frowns. “Seems like a lot of work for a little action.”

Kwame shakes his head sadly. “No, my friend. In some tribes, a man kidnaps a woman forcibly, hides her and assaults her repeatedly until…”

“Until what?” Linka whispers. She drops down beside Wheeler, unable to take her eyes of Kwame.

“Until she is impregnated.”

“Why?” Ma-Ti asks, looking physically sick as he takes a seat beside them. “I do not understand, what is the point of —"

“Pregnant women are not seen as eligible for marriage. Her reputation, as well as her family reputation would suffer unless she submits to marriage with her abductor. She would bring shame and humiliation to her village —”

“ _She_ would bring shame?” Wheeler says in disbelief. “For some asshole’s actions?”

“Surely her family would object —” Gi starts.

Kwame shakes his head. “It is the way things are done in some parts of the world. An abductor would have to ask his bride's parents to forgive him for abducting their daughter.”

“Nice of him,” Wheeler mutters. “Stand-up guy right there.”

“He would have to pay a penalty to the girl’s family. Money, livestock. Most often, a cow would be traded.”

“A cow?” Linka repeats in disbelief. “A cow is worth the trauma and fear —”

“In some places in my country?” Kwame says. “Yes. It is tradition.”

“Fuck tradition,” Wheeler mutters.

“So everyone essentially conspires against the poor girl?” Gi says, her eyes wide. “The man who takes her against her will. The family who want to avoid the shame, and the community who will disown her if she doesn’t submit.”

“Dude, that is beyond messed up,” Wheeler retorts.

“They are not my traditions,” he assures them, palms out in an effort to placate everybody. “Personally, I find these practices reprehensible.”

Linka has no idea what the word reprehensible means, but she can hazard a guess. She looks down at her hands, quiet and thoughtful. Kwame’s admission has caused a stunned silence to descend. She glances at Ma-Ti, unsure of how much he comprehends of their conversation, but again, she thinks that he probably understands enough.

“It’s a man’s world,” Wheeler offers after a while, and Linka can think of no truer a statement.

* * *

“This is my room,” Linka says, flopping onto her double bed and grinning at Gi. “Or, at least, it was. Until they turned it into a guest bedroom.”

“Nice,” Gi says, dumping her bag and looking around. She peers at Linka’s things, poking around her desk. “It’s cosier than my room at home. I’ve got a space the size of a broom closet.”

Linka smiles, feeling no shame in bringing Gi here. Her family home is run down and crumbling around them, in a state of major disrepair. Everything they own is second hand or passed down through the generations from more fortunate family members.

But she takes comfort in the solidarity of friendship.

Gi will not judge, or wrinkle her nose in distaste at the unbecoming surroundings. Will not lament the overgrown grass in the backyard, or the temporary support beam holding up the ceiling in the main living area. She won’t mock her grandmother’s old record player or the mildew forming in the laundry, where the gyprock has become soaked through due to a leak under the foundations.

It was a last-minute idea, inviting Gi to stay the night, and the decision is liberating.

“How’s your grandmother?”

“She has her good days and bad,” Linka sighs, rolling onto her stomach and plucking a loose thread on her bedspread. “She disappeared about a month ago. Mishka came home to find her missing.”

Gi blanches. “What happened?”

“She caught a bus into town and could not remember how to get home.”

“Oh my God,” Gi breathes.

“Someone found her crying at a bus stop and took her to the police station,” she says, wincing. “Mishka was beside himself.”

They unpack their suitcases and head out into the kitchen. Nona, they discover, is invariably having a good day. There’s a Dizzy Gillespie track playing, a fast-paced trumpet number, and the girls rock and jive together while Nona claps from her chair. The strain of standing for too long takes its toll, now, and she’s out of breath often.

They stay for the night, a quick visit home to check in. After dinner, Mishka takes Gi for a ride on the quad bike, and Linka can hear them shrieking and whooping from her spot by the fire.

She sits at her usual spot between Nona’s feet as Nona winds her hair into curlers. Nona, who confuses details as she reminisces about her life, and Linka, who doesn’t correct her, lest she react aggressively like she did the last time.

Kwame picks them up the next day, and Linka falters, glancing back uneasily as Nona bids them goodbye, calling her by her mother’s name.


	5. Twenty

Linka squeezes herself through the gap, leaving the tangle of electrical conduits on the wall in ruins.

Darting outside, she dusts the particles off her clothing, adjusting the mask over her face and trying not to breathe in the pesticides. It falls like light snow, glowing blood red by the light of the spotlight and bathing the grounds in a crimson glow.

The whole town is covered in it, a thick powdery substance that seems to fall after dark. The town have been evacuated and the toxicity is unknown at this point, as are the potential side effects.

The others have dispersed, poking around the disused aircraft hangers, and she scowls down at her ringless finger, making a mental note to ‘thank’ Rigger when she sees him again.

Voices float through the air, and she ducks out of sight, catching a glimpse of Greedly’s enormous frame waddling toward a parked vehicle, a phone clutched to his ear. He can barely fit through the passenger door, having to turn sideways and squeeze his belly in.

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” she mutters, rolling her eyes as Greedly belches loudly, just before the driver closes the door.

The sedan rolls away and she streaks toward the hanger he departed from, slipping inside and eyeing the oversized crop duster parked within. Two canisters are built into the base of the fuselage. A makeshift opening seems to be operated by a hinge mechanism, and the remains of the red residue coats the sides and interior.

More voices can be heard, and she moves quickly, staying close to the wall and passing through a kitchenette area with a small sink and fridge. It’s filthy, brimming with dirty pots and pans.

“Yep yep. We’ll drop you from a good height,” a voice chides nearby. “Gonna splatter you good. Boss said —”

“Don’t lose your dentures,” a voice growls back, and Linka recoils as she hears the hard impact of a fist hitting flesh. Linka doubles back to the sink, glancing over the crude weaponry available to her.

A heavy frypan is selected, and Linka pulls it free, careful not to dislodge the other utensils and alert Rigger to her presence. Clutching the handle tightly, she creeps into the next room and finds them, still bickering, and things are getting heated.

Wheeler is kneeling, bound against a radiator, his hands tied behind him and blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, but he glares up at Rigger with his usual defiant intensity.

“That all you got?” Wheeler taunts, spitting red onto Rigger’s ratty sneakers. “I know seven-year-olds with more —”

“Shut up!”

“Oh, great come back, man. That’s quality —”

“I said shut up!”

“Go fuck yourself, ya redneck meth-head,” he retorts, and this time Rigger knees him hard, repeated blows to Wheeler’s ribs, and it’s enough to piss her off and prompt her into action.

She surges forward and launches the pan hard, shrieking with the effort. It collides with Rigger’s head and he staggers for a moment, stunned, before dropping like a stone, crashing face first onto the concrete floor.

Wheeler blinks up at her in disbelief. “Jesus,” he finally breathes. “Where’d you come from?”

She pulls her mask down and tosses the frypan aside, sending it clattering to the floor. Rummaging around in Rigger’s pockets for her ring, she finds another two in addition to hers, and pockets them all.

“ _Idiota_ ,” she mutters, shoving Rigger aside.

Sinking to the floor, she reaches around Wheeler and locates the bindings, spending several minutes digging her fingers into the knots to loosen them up. She finally succeeds and tugs the ends free, stripping the rope away.

“Thanks, babe,” he grins.

She slaps his uninjured cheek twice. “You are welcome, Yankee.”

“You beat him up with a frypan,” he marvels, clearly impressed. “Damn, babe. That’s cold.”

“Serves him right for locking me in a room controlled by a computer,” she says, tossing him his ring and dragging him to his feet. “Come. Gi’s ring is here, too. She must be —”

“Damn fry pan,” he says, staring at her admiringly. He passes and hand over his head, still grinning at her. “Oh, man…”

“Put your mask back on,” she mutters, annoyed that he’s not following her. “Move!”

“I’m so turned on right now,” he says, limping out after her.

* * *

He’s still going on about it days later.

“That was awesome.” Wheeler enters the kitchen, gripping an imaginary saucepan handle. He makes a swift forehand tennis motion. “ _Bam!_ ”

“Luckily his head was hollow. I doubt there was much damage,” Linka giggles. She pushes a pile of paperwork out of sight as he sidles up next to her, peering over her shoulder.

“Knocked the poor guy out cold,” he laughs, rummaging around for a mushroom off her chopping board, and she slaps his hand away.

“What else could I do?” She returns to cutting onions, tucking her nose and mouth into her shirt sleeve in an attempt to avoid the fumes. “My choices at the time were limited.”

“Why stop there,” he teases. “We could get an arsenal goin’. Tea pots, toasters and other random home appliances —"

“We will see if you are still laughing when they haul me away on assault charges.”

“No one’s gonna’ charge ya, babe,” he assures her. “Besides, you can always hack in and change ‘em anyway.”

“But still —"

“Greedly will wanna keep the whole thing under wraps. He won’t want the authorities involved.”

“Hmm.” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, blinking away the onion-induced tear fest. “Ugh.”

“Don’t have to cry about it,” he teases, pushing himself up and perching his butt on the edge of the kitchen bench.

“Hmph,” she says, but her eyes are red and watering. “I never cry.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” he says patiently. “ _Bam_ ,” he mutters under his breath, making another swinging action. “Out for the count. Sent him flyin’.”

“I had to improvement-ise _.”_

“Improvise,” he corrects, peering down at her careful ministrations with interest. “What are you makin’?”

“Stroganoff,” she says.

“Aw, seriously?”

“Yes?” says, confused. Usually he loves her cooking. “You do not want —"

“I thought Kwame was cookin’ tonight?” he groans, disappointed as he stares at the meat and mushrooms being piled into the skillet. “Damn.”

“Why does it matter?” she asks, slapping his hand away again as he tries to steal another sliced mushroom.

“Why do you think I planned to go out tonight?” he laughs. “Kwame’s curries are revolting.”

“Wheeler!”

He shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

“He asked to swap.” She smiles at him apologetically, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He looks nice tonight, dressed in dark denim jeans and a white shirt. He smells nice too. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

She rolls her eyes, already knowing the reason for his non-committal response. “Do I know her?” she asks carefully, trying not to appear too interested.

“Don’t think so,” he says. Pinching a mushroom from the chopping board, he pops it in his mouth and jumps down from the bench. Giving her a casual wave, he grabs his bag from the floor and tosses it over his shoulder. “Save me some, okay?”

“All right.”

“Later.”

“Bye,” she says as she watches him go, knowing he’s on his way to meet a girl, have dinner with her, get a few drinks under her belt and most probably sleep with her — and not necessarily in that order.

Knowing that he’ll undertake these events with the same confidence he seems to approach life with, the effortless manner she secretly envies.

Sometimes it’s difficult.

Linka sighs, pulling the oven door open and shoving the casserole dish onto the middle shelf. She sets the timer and returns to the chopping board, drumming her fingers on the countertop, mulling things over.

There’s been a shift in her thinking, lately. Linka is beginning to accept the fact that he’s attracted to her.

Linka can finally admit that to herself. She can’t dismiss the signs any longer, can no longer explain away the flirting and the long, smouldering glances in her direction, or Gi’s observations, relayed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Knowing that he likes her, just as she is, but is choosing not to put his life on hold for her. She can’t blame him for that, not at all. She can’t expect him to wait.

But mostly, she comes to the realization that she’s intimidated by him.

Not in a threatening manner, not at all. More the feeling that she’s not at all deserving of a man like him; confident and impulsive and quick witted. A guy like Wheeler ends up with the head cheerleader, or the sorority princess with an unlimited trust fund, or the successful career woman… not a shy, awkward little nobody like herself.

Because truth be told, Linka wonders what he sees in her. She worries she won’t be enough. She worries he’s only doing this for kicks, or maybe because she’s there and she’s simply convenient.

Mainly though, she worries he’ll have his fun and tire quickly, dispatching her and moving onto the next willing accomplice. It will be yet another loss to contend with.

That perhaps her destiny is supposed to include the requisite tall, earnest boy, two years her senior, complete with the aforementioned stilted dialogue and clumsy attempts to feel her up somewhat as they sway to outdated music.

Because still, in the back of her mind, there’s still that voice saying that all she’s capable of is marrying young and bearing the requisite two point four children, keeping a neat and tidy home and catering to her partners every whim.

Russian women, compliant and docile.

Finding a studious, banal man — a man who certainly doesn’t make her heart race and her cheeks flush with nerves when he’s around. A man who doesn’t make her knees wobble, a man who would never drag her, kicking and screaming, from the self-imposed comfort zone she’s barricaded herself into.

There’s no controlling that response, nor the outcome. She’s running on empty.

If she gives any more of herself, there will be nothing left.

You can’t lose what you never had.

They’ve got a good equilibrium now, her and Wheeler, a nice balance of respect, good-natured ribbing and the odd fully-fledged meltdown that fizzles out just as quickly.

Linka sighs, considering the fact that maybe this is just the way things are meant to be between them. She leans over the counter, retrieving the brochures, her fingers running over the glossy pages, filled with admission forms and fee tables, with blurbs promising the world but ultimately delivering a mere piece of paper.

No-one in her family completed high school, let alone progressed to further study, doomed to a life below the poverty line, forced to eke out an existence through manual labor or low-paying government contracts.

Things could be different.

Learning will always be her first love. Knowledge gained can never be lost. It’s reliable and constant and strong, warming her mind and filling the void in her heart.

It’s something to think about.

* * *

She meet’s Mishka’s new girlfriend on Christmas Day; a tall, pallid slip of a thing with dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. Irina has the conversational skills of a house plant, but Mishka seems completely smitten. She seems to make him happy, so Linka supposes that’s all right.

They sit side by side, canoodling at the dinner table, and Linka is bemused at her usual straight-laced brother, holding hands with his lady and trading kisses when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Love makes you do strange things.

He’s kept his relationships separate for all this time, relegated them to the side, perhaps a deep-seated desire to not usurp Linka as the main woman in his life, but Linka would never deny him his happiness. This is the first woman he’s brought home, the first one she’s been introduced to.

Nona cooks, and Linka supervises. She looks so old and frail these days, and moves even slower than on previous visits. She’s lost some weight and is forgetting her train of thought at times, stopping mid-sentence and staring off into space.

They cook salmon pie and meat dumplings, and bake a thick loaf of _krendel_. A roast chicken cooks to brown perfection in the oven and Mishka busies himself with fixing the drinks. Before long, Linka is onto her third glass of mulled wine, prancing around on her tiptoes to the music and balancing her glass between her thumb and forefinger.

She sets the table, a little tipsy, eyeing the spruce tree in the corner. It’s sparsely decorated with an assortment of presents shoved beneath it.

“Things are going well for you, Little Linka?”

Mishka stands beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and she hugs him back.

“Yes.”

He sighs, dropping his chin on her shoulder. “You are happy, sister?”

“Yes, I am.”

He smiles, squeezing her shoulders and returning to his girlfriend. Eventually, Nona calls them over. They sit and eat, stuffing themselves full of food and drink and reminiscing about days gone by.

When they’ve finished, they trade their gifts and sit around the fire, sharing stories and laughter, and before Linka knows it, it’s four am and she’s slumped against the base of the sofa, waving her finger around to the music.

And when Kwame picks her up the next day, she’s still a little drunk. He laughs as she throws her arms around him, planting a kiss on his cheek in greeting. They head toward the Geocruiser, a spring in her step and a smile on her lips.


	6. Twenty-One

Linka clutches her script nervously, having practiced until all hours the night before.

“These people have no idea what they are talking about,” Gi mutters. “They just ramble.”

“They are politicians,” Kwame remarks. “Some are earnest in their endeavours. The rest are bloated with self-importance.”

“They will nod their heads, applaud, and then disregard any recommendations we make.” Linka sighs, rubbing her thighs nervously. She blinks, startled as another flash bulb goes off in her direction. “I do not know why we are bothering.”

“Because the media attention will be worth it,” Gi says, looking Linka over keenly. “They’ll only be focusing on you.”

Linka is dressed to kill, today; her figure clad in a black A line dress with a thin belt accentuating her waist. Gi spent an hour and a half on Linka’s hair this morning, and her shiny locks cascade down her back in loose curls, rather than the usual rough ponytail. She’s clad in a moderate amount of make-up and a thick layer of red lipstick.

Her time-spot on the packed program is still at least an hour away, yet the cameras are already trained on Linka. She’s playing the part, slipping into a role she never thought she’d consider.

They need to increase awareness. They need to highlight gross injustices occurring in the world. They need to change the policy and keep the lawmakers on the straight and narrow. They need to bring some unwanted attention to the people who are taking advantage of the gaps.

And if Linka has to show a little leg and a perfectly formed red pout, then so be it, because nothing else is working.

It’s for a greater cause, but Linka scowls all the same. This doesn’t abide by her moral and ethical code in the least.

Another flash bulb goes off, and Linka ducks further into her seat, turning red.

“Remind me to steer clear of the headlines tomorrow.”

“What?” Gi asks. “Sexy Russian Bombshell Pleads for Tighter Environmental Restrictions?”

“Exactly. This highlights my point. I am pandering to the males who make the decisions. I am forced to use sex appeal to make our point. Otherwise, my opinion is worthless. By doing this, I am therefore no better that the system we are forced to abide by.”

“Our cultures are indeed balanced against women,” Kwame agrees.

“Look at this cabinet! I see two women out of a possible fifty? Where is the equality? We have four percent of women representing the interests of fifty-two percent of the population!”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Gi sighs.

“Our media. Big business. Sport. Government. It is the women who are relegated to the compassionate jobs. The nurturing jobs. Child rearing and low-paying retail work. We are scolded for being too emotional, too weak, yet the moment we fight back, we are bossy and called out for it.”

“Did you put all that in your speech?” Gi asks worriedly. “Because I doubt they’ll go for that.”

“Look at the television, Gi. Turn on any news program. You will have a fifty-year old male newsreader, but his co-anchor will be a twenty-five year old blonde with a tight body, an annoying voice and big —"

“Hair,” Gi finishes for her.

“Why do we allow this?” Linka asks. “Why am I here, allowing myself to be —"

“Prostituted?”

“Yes!”

“Because sometimes, you have to stoop to their level,” Kwame says softly. “Sometimes you have to play the game by their rules. Honest intentions and hard work are no longer a winning strategy.”

“This is a strategy?”

“A representative of our team was invited to speak. Wheeler’s idea was strategic. This is why he suggested you. He had a valid point.”

“And Wheeler also walked into a palm tree when you stepped out of your hut looking like that, so the strategy must already be working,” Gi laughs.

“Silly Yankee.”

Linka clutches her speech tightly, waiting for her turn to speak, and before long she’s called up to the podium.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Gi grins, and with that, Linka stands; fired up and ready to give them hell.

* * *

Her feet scuff through the jagged grey rock. The landscape resembles another planet entirely; undulating mounds of crumbling shale. They crest another hill and begin to descend, but her momentum is too fast. She loses her footing for a moment, slipping and nearly toppling sideways. It’s hard to keep upright when the ground keeps shifting beneath her.

“Get off me,” Ma-Ti pants as he’s wrangled into submission and dragged ahead by two of Plunder’s bodyguards. Linka is shoved along behind him, her wrists handcuffed and her hair dank and matted against her face. She spins around furiously and ducks low, charging head-first into Bleak, but she barely breaks his stride.

He bulldozes through her flimsy attempt to overturn him, elbowing her aside, treating her as a minor annoyance rather than an impediment. He grabs her in a headlock, her bound hands clawing at his forearm as she’s dragged toward the quarry.

“Little bastards never learn, do ya?” he taunts. “Boss has had enough of you jumped-up little shits —”

“Oh!” Linka gasps as she trips over. Bleak hauls her up again by the throat, and now she’s gasping for air. “Get off!“ she chokes, digging her nails into his skin. “You’re hurting me!”

“Gonna be in a world of hurt by the time we’re finished with ya,” he seethes. “Up close and personal with the demolition gang.”

Linka pales as they descend underground. She can see the hired help, the reason why they’re here: illegal immigrants shipped in on buses from Mexico and El Salvador, complete with fake documentation. Paid in peanuts, they’re working and living in sub-human conditions. Mostly men of varying ages, they move back and forth like worker ants, their eyes downcast, some carting rock and others unspooling rolls of cable that stretch from deep within the cavern.

Her heart sinks as they move deeper into the pit. The workers have dispersed, and they’re alone now with Plunder’s men. Bleak pushes her onward with one hand, barking instructions to the other two.

A bundle of C4 explosives lies propped against a timber crate, and she eyes them worriedly as they pass.

“Plenty more of those hangin’ around, sweetheart,” Bleak says, pulling her back toward him, and she can feel his breath close to her ear, his voice a low growl. “They’re gonna be scrapin’ your brain matter up with a spoon."

They round a sharp corner, and the end of the quarry is in sight. Ma-Ti is flung head-first into the far wall. He bounces off and drops to the ground, knocked out cold, and Linka cries out his name as she’s also tossed aside, landing hard on her hip and sent sprawling, feeling her skin rip open through her jeans.

He grabs the chain linking the cuffs and drags her along the floor, toward a mining cart filled with freshly cut slabs of rock awaiting removal. She groans as Bleak squats over her, tethering her wrists to it.

He stares down at her, patting her head with a condescending smirk.

“Nothin’ personal, Blondie. Boss’s orders.”

“ _Ublyudok_ ,” she spits with as much venom as she can muster.

They turn and leave, and she’s still calling Ma-Ti’s name, trying to nudge him with her foot, but he’s just beyond her reach.

“Ma-Ti!”

There’s still noise, still voices echoing around the corner, out of sight. People going about their business, speaking in thick accents. Odd bangs and clatters can be heard, and she calls for help, pleads for assistance, but no one comes.

The voices eventually fade away, and the silence is far worse.

She doesn’t want to die. Not here, not in this place. Succumbing to a cave-in is the cruellest form of irony she can imagine.

Not like her father.

“MA-TI!”

Ma-Ti stirs, rolling onto his side. He groans, and Linka finds she can reach him, now.

“Get up,” she cries, kicking his shin, and he moves again, clutching his head. “Ma-Ti!”

He crawls toward her, dazed and bleeding from the temple.

“What happened?”

“Ma-Ti, they are setting off explosives! I am stuck —"

She rattles the chains, and he seems to realise the urgency.

“Oh no…”

He looks around, panicked, trying to find a way to free her, but the chain on the cuffs has been threaded through a thick metal eyelet that refuses to budge. “Who has the key?”

“How would I know?” she cries.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs, working and tugging on the chains, but it’s no use. “I cannot find —"

“You need to go,” she pleads, glancing over his shoulder as the sound of running footsteps is heard. “Ma-Ti, there is no sense in both of us —”

“Go,” a deep voice commands, and Ma-Ti is dragged to his feet and shoved in the other direction. Sheer relief washes over her.

“Get them off me,” she begs as Wheeler drops down beside her, attempting to pull her wrists free from the cuffs, and she grits her teeth against the pain.

Ma-Ti still stands, hesitating, unsure what to do.

“Dude, go!” Wheeler barks, shrugging out of his jacket and glaring at him. “If this place goes kaboom, we’re gonna need you to find us!”

At that, Ma-Ti turns and runs, glancing back fearfully at the pair before he disappears around the corner.

“Found some of the detonators,” he grunts, laying his jacket over her arms and beginning to burn through the chain. “Don’t think I got ‘em all —”

“I cannot be here,” she whispers. “I cannot die like this, I —”

“You’re not gonna die,” he mutters. “Besides, I’ve got a date tomorrow night with a sure thing. Not even death is gonna stop —”

“Hurry up,” she pleads. “I can’t —"

“Don’t look,” he says as the embers singe her skin. She winces in pain… but doesn’t heed the instruction, eyeing the work he’s doing.

The heat has softened the chain. The metal glows bright red, the links becoming increasingly misshapen and elongated. He cuts the beam, grabbing her arms and forcing her wrists apart, and the links seem to stretch further. He pulls harder, enough to allow it to finally break apart.

“Babe, move!” Wheeler grabs her under the arms and lifts her to her feet. They run full pelt, hand in hand, clearing the corner and picking up the pace, the daylight ahead shining like a beacon, guiding the way.

But they’re not fast enough.

Linka hears the first sonic boom, followed by another. She feels the ground shake below them, followed by the shockwave. It sends them flying, crashing to the ground and she’s screaming now, clawing her way toward Wheeler as a horrific roar assaults their ears.

Wheeler reaches for her, dragging Linka roughly under his body, shielding her, and she cowers beneath him, still screaming as the roof caves in and everything turns black.

* * *

They were saved by a support beam above their heads. It fell at an angle and took the brunt of the collapse. Still, it took Kwame nearly an hour to find them, shifting earth carefully with his ring and guided by Ma-Ti’s observations.

They’re in the air now, heading home and nursing their varied injuries.

Linka is bruised and bleeding in too many places to mention. The worst is a deep abrasion running down her upper thigh, and she groans, biting down on her fist as Gi applies antiseptic.

Ma-Ti’s forehead is wrapped up. He tends to Wheeler, who’s slumped in his seat with an ice pack propped against the back of his head. His eyes are closed, and Ma-Ti’s doing all he can to rouse him.

“That mission sucked,” Gi utters softly. She’s hurt too, a sprained ankle, and Kwame didn’t escape unscathed either. He’s piloting the Geocruiser one handed, the other clutched high over his ribs, taking shallow breaths.

Gaia meets them at the landing strip, her face dark and stormy. The weather on Hope Island tends to match her moods, so they alight to the sound of thunder and lightning crashing, a mad crescendo to end a generally shitty day.

Gaia fusses over them all, but she seems most concerned about her Fire Planeteer. Wheeler has a very evident concussion. He can barely stand on his feet, and Kwame has to support him the whole way back to his hut, with Gaia following close behind.

Linka wants to follow, anxious and guilt-ridden to say the least, but Gi and Ma-Ti lead her in the opposite direction. They take her the common room instead, to the medical kit housing a greater variety of supplies, and she sits listlessly, letting them poke and prod her, fixing plaster to her wounds and cleaning her up.

She paces around for a while and eventually rings Mishka, explaining what happened.

Later, when the island is dark and the storm is subsiding, she sneaks into Wheeler’s hut, stepping over the piles of dirty clothes strewn over the floor.

He lies face down on his unmade bed, out cold, his arm dangling over the side of the mattress and skimming the floor. His back is a patchwork of bloodied scrapes and bruises, and there’s a bag of frozen corn cobs on the back of his neck. It’s undergoing a slow slide down toward the bed covers, and she grabs it before it falls.

Linka sighs, taking a seat on the floor by his head, readjusting the pack and holding it over the lump already forming. Dropping her chin onto the mattress edge, she feels his breath expel gently against her cheek.

She stays the night with him. It’s the least she can do.

* * *

“Blight’s interior designer needs a good kick up the ass,” Gi remarks. “For a moment there, I thought my eyes were bleeding.”

“The design brief would have been simple,” Kwame laughs. “Pink, and lots of it.”

“Cerise,” Gi adds, “with a touch of magenta.”

“Bubble gum madness.” Wheeler sighs, shifting in his seat as the clouds streak past his window. “Did you see how Sludge was almost scared of her? Scampered away at one point with his tail between his legs.”

“Shrieking like a banshee when the police removed the test subjects,” Gi shudders. “Poor little bunnies.”

Ma-Ti swallows, clearly ill at ease. “They were suffering badly.”

“They were bleeding from every orifice,” Kwame says quietly. “I doubt most will make it.”

They’re quiet for a while, reflecting on what they have seen; fluffy white rabbits tethered belly-up in their cages. Linka remembers their eyes, forced open by metal hooks, and the abject fear on their little faces as she approached. She recalls the looks of horror and revulsion from the welfare representatives they were sent to accompany.

She remembers Blight’s flippant attitude, her complete lack of remorse or guilt.

“What was with the Andy Warhol retrospective in the lab,” Gi says finally, scratching her head. “Reckon they were real?”

“I do not see how they could be,” Linka says, perplexed. “You cannot just walk into an art gallery and purchase —”

“They’re fakes, then,” Wheeler shrugs, reaching over and tugging on Linka’s ponytail. “Either that, or Blight threw a fist-full of cash at ‘em —"

“You do not just walk into a major metropolitan museum and purchase —”

“Money talks.”

”Look at the Mona Lisa,” Linka explains. “It was sold to King Francois. When he was beheaded, it became the property of the state of France. Many major works of art belong to governments or are consigned by their original owners to major galleries. Some are passed on through the generations and end up in private collections or purchased outright by museums such as the Lourve.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point, _yankee doodle dummy_ , is that you cannot simply walk into a metropolitan museum and, as you said, ‘throw a fist-full of cash at them’!”

“Geez, you know some useless shit —”

“Forgive me for being cultured, Wheeler!”

“Well, they’re copies then,” Wheeler says dismissively. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

She sighs. “Blight has expensive taste. I doubt —"

“Well, regardless of Blight’s fake fine art collection, I sure as hell got a hankerin’ for some Campbell’s soup,” Wheeler replies, pulling his cap over his eyes and sinking down into his seat. “I’m starvin’.”

“Always thinkin’ with your stomach,” Gi says.

* * *

The front screen door slams and the tread of footsteps can be heard down the hallway.

“Taxi service,” Wheeler’s unmistakable voice calls out.

Linka glances up in surprise. “I thought Kwame was picking me up?”

“Not anymore.” He struts into view, stepping out of the hallway, covered in grease and god-knows what else. “Somethin’ about a girl and a water-fed irrigation system.”

“What?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs. “I kinda’ lost interest and tuned out after that.”

He makes a beeline for Linka’s grandmother. “How’s my favorite babushka?” he says warmly, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a noisy kiss on top of her wisps of thinning white hair.

“Hello, Wheeler,” Nona says, looking delighted to see him.

“You been workin’ out?” he says teasingly, squeezing her gently. “Gonna have to keep an eye on this one, babe.”

“Oh goodness,” Nona laughs, removing her glasses and wiping her eyes. She gets to her feet, pressing a gently hand to Linka’s forehead as she heads toward the kitchen bench, gathering vegetables for tonight’s meal. “Oh Linka. He makes me laugh.”

“He makes me sick,” Linka says, smiling sweetly at him, and she’s startled as Wheeler leans down and plants a noisy kiss on her own cheek.

“Hi, honey,” he gloats mockingly, and Linka elbows his thigh as he passes. She notices Mishka enter as well, home from work and looking equally grease-effected and rumpled, and she puts two and two together.

She stares at Wheeler, confused. “How long have you been here —"

“Forty-five minutes,” he replies, accepting the glass of water Mishka offers him. He leans against the kitchen counter, chugging the water in two mouthfuls, his throat pulsing with the effort.

“Where have you —"

“We arrived around the same time. We have been in the top paddock, fixing the fence. The lawn mower is now working, too,” Mishka says, dropping into a chair and smiling at Wheeler. “Your talents extend far beyond getting my sister out of hot water.”

“Yeah, she’s trouble, that one,” Wheeler says, sticking his tongue out at Linka’s bemused expression.

Mishka steps aside as Nona bustles around him. He gestures toward Wheeler. “Will you stay for dinner at the very least —”

“We cannot stay,” Linka argues. “We have an early —"

“I was not asking you,” Mishka says, annoyed. He glances at Wheeler with an eyebrow quirked. “Honestly, she has the manners of a swine.”

“Hardly,” she mutters.

“Then we will send you home and keep your friend for the night.” Mishka winks at Wheeler. “Linka is just worried you would be better company.”

“Hey, if I play my cards right, I might get a repeat of last year,” he teases. “Another passionate kiss goodbye, right here in the —”

Linka just about dies of embarrassment. “That was one time,” she exclaims, her cheeks burning bright red. “One time, and you have never let me forget it.”

“Damn straight,” he mutters, as Mishka falls about laughing.

Linka jumps up, grabbing her bags with one hand and guiding Wheeler toward the front door with the other. She does a poor job of balancing the load, dropping items and fumbling around for them.

“Goodbye, you two,” Mishka says, following them out and raising his hand fondly. “Take care of her.”

“Yeah,” Wheeler calls back, collecting her overnight bags with one hand and tossing an arm around her shoulders with the other. “How’re ya doin’, toots?”

She giggles, squeezing him around the waist. “I am good, Yankee.”

“Do not be a stranger, Little Linka,” she hears Mishka call, and she raises her hand in response.


	7. Twenty-Two

They’re somewhere on the TCH heading to Vancouver, heading to the airport. It's late afternoon and they're all weary.

Linka is wedged in the back between Wheeler and Ma-Ti. The air conditioning is on full pelt — always Kwame’s preference when he’s driving or piloting, and she’s huddled into Wheeler for warmth, his arm slung casually over her shoulders as she stares out the window, watching the scenery streak by.

Gi is cold, too. She reaches forward to adjust the thermostat, and Kwame bats her hand away.

“Do not even think about it.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’m hot.”

“It’s like forty degrees outside,” Gi scowls. "Put a jacket on."

"I do not have one," he counters.

Gi rolls her eyes as she huddles down further into her seat. “Your bodily functions never cease to amaze me.”

“What do my bodily functions have to do with anything?”

Linka rolls her eyes, and Gi snorts loudly. “You’re constantly sweating. You’re always needing a bathroom break at a moment’s notice. You’ve got the digestive system of a ninety-year-old and don’t get me started on —"

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he challenges. “All lies.”

“Tell that to your doctor,” Gi retorts, and Ma-Ti cracks up.

“I am sorry, Kwame. I tend to agree with Gi.”

“Traitor,” Kwame mutters. “I will have you know that —"

“Guys,” Wheeler interrupts, tapping the passenger window. “Look.”

Linka peers out and sees what he’s referring to; there’s a carnival on the other side of the highway, all bright lights and packed with people.

“Oh,” Gi gasps, swivelling in her seat as it passes them by. “Oh! Kwame! Can we? Please? How do we—”

The carnival streaks past in the rear window, and Linka sinks back in her seat, disappointed.

“Damn,” Gi mutters, her eyes on the road again. “Would have been nice to —"

Linka grips Wheeler’s thigh as the car veers off, heading toward the exit before looping back onto the other side of the highway.

* * *

She rides the dodgem cars with Kwame, spinning the wheel every which way and shrieking with laughter every time he butts her vehicle, his face a typical mask of concentration. Linka gets her own back though, when his vehicle loses connection with the wires above their heads, leaving him stranded in the corner like a sitting duck.

The next sixty seconds are dedicated to intentionally ramming Kwame’s car, delighting in his bellows and protestations.

They play the clowns twice, and Wheeler even manages to win himself a stuffed toy on a balloon dart game, although Gi quickly claims it as her own, shoving it down the front of her top and ignoring the resulting stares from passers-by.

They sit on the grass by the rodeo fence line, eating fries and corn dogs, just the five of them, wiling their evening away, and Linka is enjoying herself immensely.

“You’ve never been to a carnival?” Wheeler asks.

“They do not have fairs such as this in my country,” she says excitedly, nibbling around the base of her battered sausage. “We have parades and we wear traditional clothing. We have the Moscow circus… but nothing like this!”

They finish their food and wander some more. The girls stand at the base of a slingshot-type contraption, cheering on Ma-Ti and Wheeler as they’re launched high into the air. Linka can’t help but notice Ma-Ti’s pale and shaken face when he finally alights.

Kwame, Ma-Ti and Gi play some more arcade games, while Linka is dragged onto the ferris wheel with Wheeler, who takes great delight in rocking the carriage at a great height, alternating between making her scream and cackle at the same time.

The boys eventually break off together, and she and Gi race around to as many rides as they can, hopped up on sugared fairy floss and Slurpees. They ride the roller coaster and Tilt-a-Whirl, shrieking with laughter, followed by a train ride in a haunted house which really isn’t that scary, just young kids working for minimum pay — jumping out in rags and clad in plastic zombie masks.

They attempt another ride, the fortuitously named ‘Washing Machine’ and spend the next four minutes getting thrown around like a spin cycle on overdrive. When it’s over, Gi staggers and vomits behind the wheel-base of a parked carnival truck while Linka stands as lookout, eyeing the security guards looking them over as they stroll past.

By eight-thirty, they’re still recovering from the last ride, browsing the craft exhibits and stalls and buying what they please. They spend some time standing on the bottom rung of the fence, watching men in cowboy hats roping cattle and cheering along with the crowd.

With fifteen minutes left until the agreed meeting time, they complete their evening on the giant swings.

Linka drops into the metal seat, lowering the bar over her lap and gripping the chains loosely. She waits for the ride to begin, peering around at the crowd, her eyes following the excited children and adults as they race toward the available chairs, claiming what’s left.

The gate is shut and the attendant disappears into the control booth. She swings her legs back and forth, calling out to Gi as the music starts, and she feels herself lifted, spinning slowly at first, then faster, then faster, the mechanical gears grinding beneath the tub-thumping music.

As the fireworks explode around them, Linka’s eyes lull closed. She lifts her arms and throws her head back, her long hair streaming out behind her, revelling in the feel of the wind on her face, ruffling her clothes and stirring her soul.

* * *

“It is not right,” she laughs, staring down the terminal as the sirens wail around them. “I —”

“Oh please oh please oh please —” Gi chants beside her, looking around to make sure they weren’t followed. “Live a little!”

“Committing identity fraud is not my idea of ‘living’, Gi!” Linka says, but she’s grinning all the same, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “This is so illegal.”

“But it’s soooo worth it.”

“It is not my money –“

Gi snorts. “It is not technically his money either!"

“I know, but —"

“It’s proceeds of a crime, Lin! He’s selling land that doesn’t belong to him!”

“That is more reason to —”

“He’s gotten away with it. The investigation was closed. There’s now one hundred and two townhouses where the wetlands used to be. We might as well redistribute a little —"

“What if they work out it was me?”

“How are they gonna know that?” Gi replies, eyeing Wheeler as he struts into the small crew quarters. He’s eating an apple and looking completely nonplussed at the alarms going off around them. There’s a sharp crunching sound as he takes another bite. Sidling up behind Linka, he chews noisily while peering over her shoulder.

Linka stares at the mystery apple. “Where on earth did you find that —”

“Linka’s gonna hack into Greedly’s desktop and order something wholly inappropriate to his home address.” Gi says giddily. “Or even better, send it to one of his pals!”

“I am not!”

“A container of adult-sized diapers!”

“No!”

“Five hundred pizzas!”

“That is a waste of resources, Gi!”

“Lifetime supply of fertiliser, dumped right in his front yard!”

Linka scoffs. “We agreed the vast majority will go toward anonymous donations.”

“Yeah, but we can still have some fun with what’s left over…”

The girls continue arguing, until Wheeler pushes himself between them. He reaches for the mouse and enters some search terms into the web engine, browsing the results until he finds a product (and company) that’s suitable. Linka claps a hand to her mouth, stifling more giggles as the product information comes up, along with a picture that leaves little to the imagination.

He points at the monitor and takes another bite of his apple, sauntering back out the door again.

The girls stand there, gobsmacked and beyond impressed at his ingenuity.

“I’ll give him marks for creativity,” Gi murmurs. “He’s the master of mirth.”

Linka bites her lip, but the opportunity is too good to pass up. “ _Svoloch_ ,” she mutters, spending the next few minutes typing furiously. “He deserves it.”

She inserts her USB and downloads the software, effectively removing every digital trace that she was ever there, along with each keystroke logged. They shut down the computer and wipes her fingerprints clean, leaving everything as it was.

They’re in Prague a few days later when Kwame spots the headline, that Greenpeace, Doctors Without Borders and the EPA all receive generous cash donations courtesy of an anonymous ‘donor’.

Linka sips her tea, glancing slyly at Gi, taking comfort in the fact that by now, Looten Plunder’s forwarding address would have been used for the delivery of two hundred and twelve blow-up sex dolls… also paid for using Greedly’s bank account.

* * *

The beach volleyball is in full swing. Gi and Wheeler are playing one on one, and they’re both surprisingly good.

“Don’t go easy on me just because I’m a girl, Red,” she says mockingly, sending the ball high over the net in a graceful arch.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wheeler retorts, lining up beneath the descent and slamming it down hard, narrowly missing Gi’s head.

“Hey!” she exclaims, kicking up sand and glaring back at him. “Watch it!”

Linka grins, dipping in and out of the action. She clutches a thick textbook in her hands but is only half reading it, enjoying the constant repartee springing forth between her two ultra-competitive friends.

“Who is winning?” Kwame takes a seat beside her towel, sitting cross-legged in the sand.

“Wheeler is winning by a long shot.”

“He’s cheating,” Gi pants, diving toward another powerful shot and crashing face first into the sand instead. “You’re a cheater.”

“I’m creamin’ you,” Wheeler retorts, folding his arms and waiting for her to take the next shot. “Hurry up. Gettin’ bored, here.”

“Always entertaining, those two,” Kwame comments drily. He leans back in the sand, propped up on his elbows and watching the waves crash. “The tomatoes are ripe, by the way. The potatoes should be just about at maturity.”

“I have plans for those,” she muses, flicking to the next page and adjusting her sunglasses. “I think an olivier salad may happen in the near future.”

“Sounds wonderful,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I was thinking a curry for tonight.”

“Oh.” She hides her face behind the book, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

A shriek of laughter sounds from nearby, and the volleyball spins sideways, bouncing off Kwame’s shoulder before fishtailing in a different direction.

“Sorry!” Gi shouts, jogging over and retrieving it. She’s out of breath and red-faced, kicking sand up as she passes them.

“Linka?”

“Yes?”

Ma-Ti has appeared. He looks troubled as he kneels beside her, eyeing Linka nervously. “Have you called home lately?”

“I spoke to Mishka last week,” she replies, turning another page. “He has broken up with —"

“I think you need to call home, Linka.”

“Why?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair. “You need to call home.”

There’s an awful finality to that statement. 

An unpleasant chill runs through her, and Linka stares at him for a moment, the blood rushing from her face. She slams her book shut and scrambles to her feet, jogging back to the common room.

* * *

Linka lies awake in her old bedroom, staring out the window and listening to Gi’s soft snores beside her. She’s not sure where the others are. They all came with her, lending support from a polite distance. Ma-Ti is bunking in with Mishka for the night. She assumes Kwame is sleeping in the Geocruiser, and Wheeler will no doubt have found a suitable spot somewhere.

There’s a bedroom empty, the one beside hers, the one that smells of lavender and talc. She can picture it in her head: the single bed and yellow patchwork quilt, and the small dresser, with two framed photographs decorating the mantle. The bedside table with a single glass of water and a box of tissues. The clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

That room remains empty tonight. No one seems willing to slumber in the bedroom an elderly woman recently died in, but she can understand that reasoning.

The doctor had arrived quickly, a kindly old man in his seventies who gave the requisite pronouncement of death, scrawling notes onto a clipboard.

It took thirty-six hours for the body to be removed. By the time Linka had arrived, pale and exhausted, Mishka had placed a sheet over Nona’s body, an attempt to maintain normality, allowing them to go about the rest of their day with a dead body in the early stages of rigor mortis.

The coroners eventually rolled in, apologising for their lateness and spiriting her body away. There were three more to collect after hers. Death is a business after all.

She went just as she wanted, though, peacefully in her sleep, and Linka is thankful for that. But a week from now, she and Mishka will no doubt need to navigate the bushes and brambles together, completing the cycle of death… presenting her to eternity in a gothic concrete box.

Linka sighs heavily, rolling over and blinking up at the ceiling. She’s restless and numb, and somewhat irritable, knowing that sleep will continue to elude her tonight.

Throwing her legs over the edge of the mattress, Linka throws on a dressing gown; a bulky salmon-colored number that hides the billowy old-lady nightgown she’s stuck wearing, since pretty much everything was left behind in her haste to get here.

She pads into the kitchen barefoot. The embers are still present in the wood fire, glowing red, and there’s the faint scent of cinnamon in the air. Perhaps the scent of cookies or cinnamon rolls, a last batch baked before Nona retired permanently from this life.

Filling the jug, she flicks the kettle on and leans back against the bench, glancing forlornly around the kitchen.

There’s a thin cardigan draped over the back of a chair. Utensils are long-since dried on the rack beside the sink. A glass with faint pink lip gloss sits half-empty on the dining table, and her grandmother’s record player sits in its usual place, a darkened mass on the side table, destined to gather dust.

She eyes it curiously, biting her lip.

Bending low over the unit, she moves the needle to the edge of the vinyl and adjusts the volume down low. The initial crackle fades and is soon replaced by a fast-paced swing track that does nothing to lighten the emotional burden she’s carrying.

Hands shoved deep into her pockets, she slumps against the bench again, despondent and listless, oblivious to the squeak of springs in the next room and the soft tread of feet along the floorboards.

She’s not even aware of his presence until he’s right there in front of her, shirtless and clad only in sweatpants. He’s still half asleep, his hair flattened on one side, and he regards her worriedly.

“You okay?” Wheeler asks. It’s an unloaded question, but she feels the impact, enough to drown under the reality of what the answer entails.

She stares up at the ceiling, wiping tears away with trembling hands.

“Everyone leaves,” she whispers.

He lets out a heavy breath as she starts to cry. Stepping forward, Wheeler pulls her into his arms. The music still plays as he holds her close, lifting her slightly until the balls of her feet rest on the top of his.

Her body sags into his, as if grief and pain are capable of removing all trace of uncertainty and fear, breaking down barriers and allowing her the privilege of comfort.

Just this once.

He scoops her up as if she weighs nothing at all, carrying her into the living room and sinking down onto the couch, littered with blankets and pillows.

Her cheeks are wet with tears as he tosses the quilt over both of their bodies. The song plays out, and the record eventually stops spinning. He holds her, stroking her face and her hair, whispering to her and reassuring her.

Telling her that everything is going to be alright.

* * *

“Can we buy you a drink, girls?”

“No thank you,” they say in unison, smiling politely at the two businessmen loitering beside them. The men appear to handle the rejection well, retrieving their drinks from the bar staff and wandering back to their table. One gives a backward glance toward Linka, and she smiles at him apologetically.

“Third time, tonight,” Gi says. “Lucky streak.” She stirs her rum and coke before taking a sip and grimacing.

“Too strong?”

“Not strong enough,” Gi laments. “Tastes like brown water.”

Linka sighs, hunching over her strawberry mojito and sipping the contents through a straw. “Mine is good.”

“How’s Mishka?”

“He is cleaning up. Going through her things. There are charities who will come and collect.”

“Should have taken some time off, Lin.”

“Mishka did not want me to,” she says. “And I need to work. It helps me to not dwell on things too much.”

“Okay.” She smiles at Linka. “Are we going to eat here?”

“Why don’t we order from the bistro and take some food back for the boys?”

“You’re nicer than I am,” Gi laughs. “What are we ordering?”

“Burgers?”

“Indian?” Gi teases. She wrinkles her nose, rising to her feet and rubbing Linka’s shoulder. “Yuck. Burgers it is.”

Linka smiles, still fiddling with her straw, watching her friend head to the small window and addressing a flustered looking teen working behind the checkout.

Navigating death is a well-practiced habit, but this one has been easier than she thought.

There’s an ache within her bones, but it’s a dull ache. There’s the sense that it’s different, this time. She feels no sense of deep pain or trauma associated with her passing, rather the knowledge that it was simply her time.

Her grandmother lived a good life, a much-loved eighty-year-old woman who died in her sleep, tucked under the covers, peaceful and dreaming.

The loss brings sorrow, but it also brings comfort, knowing that Linka’s parents were there to meet her.

At least, she hopes they were. Religion has never figured much into her outlook on life, but this is one aspect Linka clings to. It’s what helps her survive.

They head back to the hotel, their arms laden with hot food and a few beers for the boys. It’s early evening and the sky is clear, a few stars already twinkling between the towering skyscrapers above.

She wonders if her grandmother is one of them.


	8. Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for sexually explicit content

Linka doesn’t even remember his name, the first time she meets him whilst on a mission. He’s got deep brown eyes, dimples in his cheeks and dark, wavy hair that never seems to be out of place.

Gi refers to him as a Ken Doll, and Wheeler tends to call him something else entirely.

This man is attentive, with a deep voice that rumbles and an easy smile. He approaches her one day, engaging her in small talk, making pointed eye contact, and she’s comfortable enough in his presence to flirt back.

He asks for her number, and she gives it to him, throwing caution to the wind, wondering where this decision might lead instead of navigating the potential consequences.

He takes her to a crowded marina on their first date. Linka spends far too long choosing what to wear and is running half an hour late by the time she arrives. They have dinner by the water, sipping wine, and strolling the promenade when they’re finished.

She blushes pink when he takes her hand and tells her how beautiful she looks tonight.

The second date consists of dinner and a movie, then a round of mini golf at a nearby complex. Linka completely bombs out, lamenting her lack of accuracy while she wobbles in her wedge heels, her tanned legs drawing his appreciative glances. At the end, they bid one another good night, and he kisses her beneath a streetlight in the parking lot; her first real, actual proper date-kiss at the not-so-tender age of twenty-three.

She’s a self-confessed late bloomer after all.

The third date is her idea, a picnic on the grounds of a vineyard in the middle of Napa wine country, with local bands playing on a small stage. The grounds are jam-packed with people, and they find a spot away from the crowd, dropping down onto the picnic rug and talking, drinking and eating food purchased from nearby stalls. Two bottles of wine later and they’re side by side, sharing kisses as the hot sun beats down upon them.

The fourth date is spent at his home on his sofa, laid out on her back with her legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth is wet and warm against hers, her soft moans and sighs spurring him on further. They make out for forty-five minutes, grinding on one another, his hand slipping under her dress and rubbing her in places she’s never been touched before.

She’s aroused and damp between the thighs when Gaia’s voice sounds in her head like a bullhorn. Linka nearly slips off the couch, startled as an eco-emergency brings things to a screaming halt.

Linka’s hair is matted and she’s completely distracted by the time she returns. Still daydreaming, Gaia has to repeat the same instructions three times before it finally sinks in.

She sleeps with him on the fifth date.

It’s the first time she’s been naked with a man, and she loves the closeness skin to skin contact brings, and the sensations that stir when his hands smooth over her body, kneading her flesh.

She finds that physical contact with a man is tactile and soothing, and oddly therapeutic. It’s something she wasn’t expecting.

It all starts out so promising… but goes steadily downhill from there.

She hisses a sharp breath through her teeth as he enters her. It hurts — a lot — but he’s too far gone to notice, grunting into her neck and sweating profusely. So she spends the next few minutes with her jaw clenched, staring over his shoulder at the lopsided drapes lining the top of his bedroom window.

The curtain rod is crooked, and she laments the fact that her OCD remains front-and-centre, even during uninspiring sex. She focuses on that instead, until his thrusts become uninhibited and reckless. His body stiffens, and he utters a long growl into her throat as he comes.

The whole deed takes no more than a few minutes. She lies awake afterward, listening to him snore beside her and wondering what the hell just happened.

Wondering why love stories and sonnets are written about the act of love, and why society places so much emphasis on sex when it appears to resemble three minutes of rapid jack-hammering at best.

She sees him a few more times, sporadically, when their schedules line up, but it’s more of the same. Distance is an issue, of course, but most of all, he’s not someone she’d consider bringing home to Mishka over a Christmas dinner.

He’s not someone she would take to meet her parents, wandering hand in hand and navigating the bushes and brambles and sticky weeds together. Introducing him to a vast stone monolith was never going to be on her list of intended adventures.

It’s the revelation that surprises her most of all, that she feels no guilt or regret about their time together. She’s philosophical about the way things panned out between them. She’s pretty sure that he just wanted to sleep with her, but in a way, she’s used him too, chosen a discreet, non-threatening guy to ‘do the deed with’.

That maybe she just needed to get ‘that’ off her chest. Get ‘it’ over and done with, knowing all the while that he’s someone she won’t count as a loss. 

Knowing she won’t lose another piece of her heart over him.

Learn and grow. Move onto greener pastures. Linka’s moving at a snail’s pace at best, but at least it's a step in the right direction.

So it’s not a total loss. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be with him long term. Maybe he’s a lesson, rather than a mistake.

Maybe that’s okay.

* * *

“Want some of my shake?” Gi asks.

“No, thank you,” Linka replies, gesturing toward the bottle of Coke propped in the grass beside her. She’s drinking far too much cola at the moment, up to three cans per day — although in hindsight, the calories seem to be burning off just as quickly. It’s the only thing keeping her going. Her energy seems to be depleted as of late.

They’re in a picturesque reserve, a contrast to the protected gorges located only an hour away, where they’ve been toiling for the past few days. The canyons in the nearby national park have hidden all manner of illegal things lately, buried beneath tonnes of illegally dumped soil and wrecking the natural reservoirs that flow through the area.

They finished around lunch time and found this community space by accident. The grounds are massive, housing a large lake, and families are out in force, spending their Sunday together. Linka leans back, watching parents and children riding their bikes and scooters around the numerous walking tracks.

People are seated in groups at picnic tables, keeping a close eye on their shrieking children at the nearby play equipment, and kids are playing soccer close by.

The take-away fish and chip shop over the road was all they needed to seal the deal and make a slight detour.

Linka sits propped against an old elm tree. It’s a sunny day, yet the wind chill seems to be seeping into her bones, in spite of the charcoal woollen coat cladding her body.

She fiddles with the ornate silver buttons running down the center. It’s an expensive brand, an impulse buy from a boutique in London last month. Her wardrobe is now filled with nice clothing. She’s certainly not irresponsible with money, but Linka enjoys the freedom of not having to think about purchasing what she wants.

It’s a far cry from her past, when her family could barely afford the essentials. It’s a far cry from her wardrobe at home, which was, at one time, filled with thread-bare, mistreated clothing; cast aside and ‘bestowed’ upon her by more fortunate family members.

She’s reminded of the puffy white hand-me-down from her cousin, Lllya, the one which leaked around the seams at the shoulders during heavy downpours. It’s stuffed in a box somewhere, packed amongst her things and relegated to an uncertain limbo until they work out the logistics of Nona’s modest estate.

“How’s Mishka?” Gi asks, and Linka almost laughs at the coincidence. Sometimes, she swears that Gi can read her thoughts. They’re so in sync with one another… even their monthly menstrual cycles have aligned, much to their amusement.

“He is good,” Linka says. “Mishka has moved out. He is living with a friend in an apartment in town.”

“Didn’t want to stay?”

“Nona’s house was always too remote for him,” she sighs, sipping her drink and eyeing an errant ball kicked in their direction. “Too many memories.”

Gi nods, smiling as two little boys trot over to retrieve their ball. She gathers it up and tosses it back to them, and they thank her in a language Linka is too tired to decipher.

“We’re heading home, tonight,” Gi sighs. “Twenty-three days away. I think that’s a record.”

“Unless something else —”

“Don’t jinx it,” Gi mutters, eyeing their colleagues as they cross the grounds toward them. Two large boxes of fish and chips are balanced between Ma-Ti’s hands. He grins at the girls, his face remarkably peaceful and clear; a stark contrast to the stormy expressions of the others.

Linka rubs her hands together as Ma-Ti dumps the food in the center. She’s starving as she leans forward eagerly, taking a pile of fries from the greaseproof paper layered within the box.

Kwame is quiet and dour today, and Wheeler looks tired, his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders squared against the gusts of wind that have started up again. She shuffles over to make room and he drops down beside her with a sigh, propping himself against her lumpy section of tree trunk.

“Still diggin’ the dirt outta my ears,“ he laments, reaching for a handful of fries, and she hums in agreeance. There are still several twigs embedded in his hair from earlier. She pulls them out and flicks them away, knowing she must look equally filthy and dishevelled.

“Looks like you took half of the forest with you,” she says, smiling gently at him.

“That’s doubtful. There was enough crap down there to fill the Grand Canyon.”

“I know,” she says softly. “You look tired.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You got that right.”

Wheeler adjusts his cap low over his face. He closes his eyes, and her gaze travels down to his hands, resting over his thighs, noting the long fingers and weathered knuckles. They’re strong hands, capable of offering comfort and inflicting damage. She knows that now, she’s seen it for herself and the contrast continues to fascinate her. That tantalising mixture of gentle and rough, of both safety and uncertainty.

She finds him so changed, so different from the early days. He’s no longer the flirty, tail-chasing kid from her youth. He towers over her, with a well-defined jawline and a muscular physique she can’t help staring at. His New York drawl has deepened, and she finds that his voice feels like home, warm and intimate.

Only two things have remained unchanged. They are same traits that attracted her from the very first day they met; that piercing blue stare that seems to look through you.

His sense of humor is the other, the mischievous streak that continues to keep Linka on her toes.

She watches him as he sleeps, his head tipped back against the tree and his mouth slightly open. The remaining Planeteers eat in a more subdued manner that usual, making plans and spending the next ten minutes fighting over who is piloting them home.

No one appears to want the job, but Gi loses out in the end after a multi-player ‘scissors, paper, rock’ showdown.

They gather up their belongings and pack up what’s left. Gi is still grumbling about the long trip home when a shadow passes over them, and a shiny pair of black shoes appear next to Gi’s outstretched hands.

Gi scuttles back in fright. “What the —"

“You’re a hard woman to get in contact with, Miss Volkova,” a voice interrupts, and Linka glances up, startled.

“Excuse me?”

A man in a non-descript grey suit stands nearby, shielding his eyes from the winter sun. There are two more men standing behind him, a good distance away but they’re eyeing the small group curiously, talking amongst themselves.

“Could we have a word?” he asks.

“I am sorry?” Linka stammers, surprised. “Do I know —”

“We’ve left several messages,” the man explains, removing his sunglasses. He flashes a badge, and Linka inspects it closely as the missing parts of the puzzle start forming in her head. "Thought we might try another tactic."

Kwame gets to his feet and checks his credentials, glancing at Linka in confusion. “I am sorry, but who are —"

“I know it’s highly irregular,” he explains to Kwame. “We looked into your flight plans. Thought we'd introduce ourselves personally, you know. We were hoping to borrow one of your team members for ten minutes,” he says, gesturing toward Linka.

Linka’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly. She stands unsteadily, dusting off the crumbs and shaking his outstretched hand.

“Do you mind?” He smiles, gesturing toward a black car idling in the carpark. “Could we have a word in private?”

She looks back at the others, who stare back at her quizzically, including Wheeler who is awake and running his hand through his hair, eyeing the men with suspicion. On the other hand, Linka is not frightened or intimidated by these men. They mean her no harm, but she hesitates regardless, unsure on how to proceed.

She glances at Kwame, who shrugs.

_It’s up to you._

Uncertain and wary, Linka walks away with the men, listening intently as they start talking.

* * *

“What are you lookin’ at,” Argos Bleak growls, standing by the doorway and eyeing the pair with a smug smirk.

“Just checkin’ my reflection,” Wheeler counters. “But your ugly mug keeps getting in the way.”

“Heard Greedly got up close and personal with one of your little buddies?” Bleak taunts. “Nearly took an eye out, I hear?”

Wheeler’s folds his arms, keeping a wary eye trained on Bleak. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“It’s a shame,” he drawls, inspecting his nails, and Linka glares at him from above the monitor. “Dangerous business you little shits are in.”

“No thanks to you and your friends,” Linka mutters.

“Real shame.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a real shame when I return the favour,” Wheeler seethes. “Real shame when I barbeque his ass rotisserie-style while he squeals like a stuck pig —”

“Dangerous business,” Bleak drawls, and Linka knows he’s intentionally goading Wheeler to get a reaction. She glances at them worriedly every now and then, more concerned about the potential altercation about to go down, rather than the files she’s sifting through on Plunder’s computer.

She puts a mental call out for assistance from Ma-Ti just as the search brings up a match. It pings, flashing, and Linka scrolls through the results.

“Here,” she murmurs, plugging in her adaptors and the USB drive. “I found it.”

Wheeler glances over her shoulder. “You found the trucks?”

“I have found the logistics. There was a deviation made here,” she says, pointing to the screen. “The shipment was reassigned. A different route and delivery address were inputted. The drugs were intercepted and disappeared off the manifest here.”

Wheeler glances over her shoulder, glaring at Bleak. “Your boss has been a naughty boy.”

“Wouldn’t know nothin’ about that,” Bleak says, yawning, as if this is the most boring conversation ever. He glances at the authorities still swarming the property, overturning furniture and ripping apart cushions and appliances with a crowbar. “Boss ain’t even here. Bastards won’t find what they’re lookin’ for. Search warrant ain’t worth the paper it’s written on.”

“Convenient,” Wheeler mutters. “You know, the pleasure of your company ain’t exactly required, here, chrome-dome. Feel free to go powder your nose.”

“Wantin’ to get rid of me?” Bleak smirks, folding his arms and looking them over with benign interest. “Lookin’ for an excuse to lay some pipe with the little lady?”

“Shut up, Bleak,” Linka snaps, feeling her face heating up. She glances up again, meeting Bleak’s steady gaze for a moment, almost challenging him to continue. Bleak shrugs his shoulders, eyeing her with a lazy grin. He doesn’t smile much, and Linka finds her skin crawling at the sight of it.

“We all have needs… I’m sure even you eco-nerds indulge every now and —”

“Shut your trap, asshole,” Wheeler growls back. “I’m sure your own needs are met regularly by cheap assortment of two-dollar hookers with missin’ teeth and limbs —"

“I don’t blame ya. I’d go there.” Bleak gestures in Linka’s direction, looking her over keenly. “She’s cute. She’s fuckable.”

“Say another word and I’ll fuckin’ —”

“You’ll what?” he challenges. “Can’t flame me. Too many witnesses, numb-nuts.”

Linka senses Wheeler’s temper rising to dangerous levels. She reaches out and slides her fingers around his wrist, stroking his pulse with her thumb in an effort to calm him. Her other hand types furiously, just wanting to download the information and get Wheeler the hell out of there before —

“Sealed the deal yet, Pyro?” Bleak goads, and Linka’s grip on Wheeler becomes vice-like, to the point of cutting off the circulation to his arm.

“Wheeler,” she says warningly. “Wheeler, don’t.”

She types faster, calling again to Ma-Ti, silently willing Bleak to leave and alarmed at how fast Wheeler’s composure is slipping away.  
  
She’s seen his temper over the years, can still locate the holes in his hut walls, regardless of the shoddy patch-up job completed after he’s put his fist through the dry-wall. She knows his propensity to not back down or concede defeat.

She knows that out of all the eco-villains they face, Bleak is the one who raises his hackles the most.

“Mixin’ a little business with pleasure?” Bleak growls, plucking his moustache. “Givin’ her a good —"

“Yankee,” she says warningly, eyeing the door with mounting panic. “Don’t.”

“What?” Wheeler grunts. The fact that the veins are standing out in his neck gives Linka great cause for concern.

“Behave yourself. He is just trying to get a reaction —”

“Gonna flatten him if he doesn’t shut his fuckin’ trap —"

“Calm down,” she whispers pleadingly, staring past Bleak and looking for any signs of their colleagues. She doesn’t find any. “This is not helping. We have a job to do —”

“She’s right, Red. Sure you have better things you’d rather be doin’,” Bleak drawls. “Namely her, bent over the table with her legs spread —”

Wheeler is gone in a flash, vaulting the table and knocking the computer sideways, launching himself across the room. 

Drawing his fist back, he strikes Bleak in the face — once, twice, three times, before Bleak recovers from the shock and manages to land a hard fight-hook back.

It happens so fast, she scarcely has time to breathe. In the blink of an eye they’re on the floor, pummelling into one another, engaged in a violent struggle. Linka scrambles to her feet, screaming for Kwame, knocking the chair over in her haste to reach them.

“WIND,” she screams, splitting the stream and sending them skittering to opposite sides of the room. “KWAME!”

People come running from everywhere, bracing themselves against the hurricane activity still circulating. Kwame is suddenly there, hauling Wheeler up from the floor and grabbing him in a head lock.

Wheeler is dragged from the room, bleeding from the mouth and trying to wrench his way free, his eyes blazing. A couple of federal agents restrain Bleak and forcibly remove him, and he’s still bellowing after Wheeler at the top of his lungs, blood streaming from his nose.

The noise fades, until only Linka remains, alone and standing frozen in the middle of the Plunder’s office. The wind gusts have died down. Printer paper and loose documents float down around her, flapping gently until they reach the floor.

The desktop computer lies on Plunder’s desk, overturned; the keyboard dangling by its cord and spinning gently.

Linka stares at it for a moment, feeling sick and uneasy.

* * *

Her legs lie tucked up beneath her; an old, tatty cardigan thrown over her shoulders. They’ve finished dinner and the television is on, and she's seated on the end of the couch beside Gi.

Kwame is slouched comfortably in the single seater, engrossed in a documentary he’s found about gardening. One side of his face is hidden. She can’t see the bandage, but she knows that it’s there, hiding the laceration held together by a combination of sutures and minute steri-strips.

He seems enthralled by the presenter droning on about chlorophyll, although it could be the painkillers he’s still popping regularly.

Linka sighs, turning the page of the latest textbook she’s been sent by her lecturer. It’s the size of a county phone book and twice as heavy, and she struggles under the weight of it, trying to balance the book on her knees, as well as her notepad and pen. Repositioning herself, her pen slips off her thigh and roll between the cushions.

“ _Bozhe moy,”_ she grumbles, annoyed. Digging her fingers between the seams of the fabric, she finds all manner of candy wrappers and melted chocolate. Something borderline unpleasant squishes between her fingers, and she reaches over Gi and shoves Wheeler, sitting on the other end, making a point to wipe her fingers on his shirt sleeve.

“You are a pig,” she mutters, tossing the wrappers at him before digging around further and eventually retrieving her pen. “Disgusting.”

“I was savin’ that for later,” he remarks, turning his body and swinging his legs over Gi’s. He nudges Linka’s thighs, and the textbook slips off again.

 _“Idiota_ ,” she says with a huff.

“Yep.”

“Kwame,” Gi says, looking bored out of her skull. “I’m really happy you have your hobbies, but this plant fetish is really starting to bother me —”

“Since when do I ever get the television, Gi?” he challenges, holding tight to the remote. “Between you and Wheeler, I never get the chance to —"

“Photosynthesis? C’mon! I’ve seen stamp-collecting conventions with more interesting content!”

“Gi?” Ma-Ti walks in, freshly showered with a towel lying loose around his shoulders. “Your mother is on the phone.”

“Ooh,” she squeaks, shoving Wheeler’s legs aside and ignoring the loud thump of his heels hitting the floor.

She bounces toward the kitchen, and Linka takes notes for the next half hour, scribbling furiously, trying to get some study in while all is relatively quiet.

The gardening program finishes, replaced by an equally thrilling documentary about American honeybees. She senses movement beside her and is unsurprised to see Wheeler on his feet, retrieving the remote from his friend’s slack grasp.

“Snorin’ again,” he mutters, dropping back down beside her. He changes the channel and tosses the remote aside, resting his feet on the coffee table. “Guy needs his adenoids checked.”

“Mmm,” she says, scanning the page and aware of his eyes focused upon her. She purses her lips, turning another page as he tugs on the end of her loose plait.

“What are you doing?” Linka sighs, assuming her study time is over.

“Why don’t you ever wear your hair out?”

She marks the page and closes her book. Dropping it to the floor, Linka stretches her arms above her head and considers the answer.

“It is long,” she ventures. “It is difficult to… how do you say… maintain?”

“Mmm hmm,” he answers, and she’s thoroughly distracted now as he unwinds the elastic from the base and pulls the strands apart. His movements are gentle and measured, unhurried, and she’s reminded of her grandmother in that moment.

He rakes his fingers through her hair, pulling and tugging at the strands, and she’s comfortable enough in his presence to let him. She finds herself curling up beside him, her hair unbound and lying loosely over his lap, enjoying his nails stroking gently through her scalp, until her eyes lull closed and she knows no more.

She wakes the next morning, still on the couch and tucked beneath a blanket. Wheeler is nowhere in sight, and she pushes herself up with a yawn, rubbing her eyes and peering around blearily.

“Nice hair.” Ma-Ti is framed in the doorway, holding a cup of tea in his hand. He eyes her with amusement. “New fashion?”

“What?” Linka frowns, feeling her head tentatively and finding two sections of her hair have been parted and bound into two lopsided ponytails.

Each one is finished with a stylish candy-wrapper bow.

* * *

The man makes her skin crawl, literally.

It’s in the way he stares at Linka; the way he looks her up and down, his eyes scanning her figure intently. It’s gotten to the point where she’s started contemplating wearing baggy sweatpants whilst on missions that might involve him.

But she decides against this course of action, because she won’t change who she is or how she behaves because of a man. Call it a higher moral responsibility — or a stubborn refusal to be relegated to a mere sexual object.

Nonetheless, she moves closer to the others whenever she finds herself within this man’s presence, seeking security and reassurance, and she hates herself for it.

He’s heavily muscled, with a blonde buzz cut and a penchant for black jeans and white tee-shirts, stretched thin over his broad chest. His bulbous neck appears to be the same circumference as his head, a fact that Gi points out over one of their many dinner and debrief sessions, resulting in hysterical laughter for god knows how long.

One mission, whilst investigating missing aide supplies in Africa, he takes Linka’s arm and tries to engage her in conversation away from the others, but the dialogue is stilted and somewhat lewd. She must look visibly distressed, because Kwame is there in an instant to provide support.

On another mission, this man takes her by surprise, cornering her inside an office. He’s well over six-foot tall and towers over her, and she’s backed into corner, doing her best not to appear completely freaked out as he makes a comment about her ass. She _is_ assertive this time, shoving him aside and warning him to maintain his distance.

When he doesn’t heed the warning, a little ring-powered persuasion is required.

It’s yet another instance of someone reducing her to a mere set of breasts, an ass and a couple of rudimentary openings, as if she were not worthy of thought or time or consideration.

As if her mere existence was relegated to satisfying the basest of sexual urges. On days like this, she feels less than human.

Then there’s the wolf-whistles. The heckles and sexual inuendo. The comments made when she’s within his line of sight. Unpleasant and derogatory comments that make her blood boil and cause certain members of the team to stick to her side like glue.

He casually mentions to her one day that he can ‘make her feel good’ if she were so inclined, and Linka replies (in Russian) that feeding his genitals through a vice would be all she needed to maintain a sunny disposition.

He doesn’t like that response, although Gi nearly coughs up a lung when Linka tells her later.

On yet another occasion, this man simply stands there, watching her from a distance, cold-eyed and menacing whilst she and Wheeler trawl through a factory, looking for illegally acquired pelts.

“Where’d ya source Dolph Lundgren, from,” Wheeler asks blithely, eyeing Argos Bleak with his usual level of disdain. “Psychopaths ‘R’ Us?”

“Bargain basement reject,” Bleak mutters back, making no move to assist them, before turning his back and stalking off in the opposite direction, his palm rubbing his gleaming head.

Today, Linka stands beside a deserted wheat field, her loose hair blowing in the breeze, eyeing the small silo in the distance. The others have dispersed, inspecting the property at length. She acknowledges the dangers, battles her inner voice telling her not to go, but there’s no sign of Kroi so far, and she lets her guard down enough to start jogging toward the holding facility.

She just needs a small sample of grain. The vial is clutched in her hand, ready to be filled.

It'll take just a moment.


	9. Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been purposely vague on this fic for a variety of reasons. If you haven’t already guessed from the end of the last chapter, this is a companion piece to my 2016 fic "Only Shadows Ahead". More specifically, this is original timeline Linka, from her POV. 
> 
> I dropped a variety of hints throughout the earlier chapters of this story, with the introduction of SAIP and the origins of Blight’s mad hoarding. You have the seeds of a solid relationship forming between Wheeler and Mishka, and more background on the animosity between Wheeler and Bleak. This chapter will also deal with certain equipment involved in quantum mechanics. 
> 
> Wink wink.
> 
> My plan last chapter was always to slam it home with Kroi’s unpleasant introduction.
> 
> My favourite parts when writing OSA were the flashbacks/memories taken from Linka’s life (the original timeline). These next two chapters are sequenced around those flashbacks, slotting in between them, giving you more insight into Linka’s life before… you know. Some are separate, some are precursors/continuations of certain flashbacks of OSA.
> 
> One or two events will be a direct carbon copy, because there’s at least one particular occurrence I can’t — and won’t — tap-dance around. You can probably guess which one.
> 
> My main purpose in revisiting this fic? 
> 
> So many people have asked me over the years what happened in the period after two certain characters left together, and what happened AFTER Chapter 47 in the original timeline. This fic will bridge the gaps and I hope it will bring some closure.
> 
> Do you need to have read OSA to understand this? 
> 
> Good question. I hope I have added enough detail to have created a stand-alone fic in its own right. Having said that, if you know OSA, you will have quite a few ‘ah-ha’ moments as you read this. 
> 
> If you want the abridged version of OSA, I suggest you simply read the flashbacks, the sections in italics from chapter 26 through to 47. That should set some pretty solid ground work.

It’s eleven o’clock at night and there’s an assortment of people loitering around the emergency department, waiting for a triage nurse to assess their injuries.

A group of drunken college kids surround one of their own, a semi-conscious guy with bleach-blonde hair, clutching what looks like a broken arm. There’s a couple of wheezing youngsters being soothed by harried-looking mothers. A man with a head wound is slumped by the corner and there’s an argument brewing by the window booth, between a no-nonsense nurse and a middle-aged bald man wearing flip flops.

Their voices are getting heated. A pair of security guards stride past, and their mere presence is enough to calm the irate man, who has no qualms about harassing a woman but cowers in the face of six-foot-four African American men who look like they belong on a grid-iron team.

Linka steps closer to Kwame, tucking the side of her throbbing face into Kwame’s chest, still dizzy and unsteady on her feet. His arm tightens around her shoulders, holding her protectively as Gi approaches the front desk.

The staff seem to be expecting them.

She finds herself ushered through into a private ward on her own, and the next hour is a blur of cotton swabs, gauze and antiseptic.

Two plain clothed detectives arrive in the middle of it all, and she averts her gaze, embarrassed and self-conscious as they glance down at her pityingly.

Linka’s lip is busted up, split and swollen, dried blood already drying on her chin and neck. Her clothes are streaked with dirt and stains, and her face already bares the tell-tale mottled shadows, hinting at the angry purpling bruises to come.

Her cheekbone and temple sustained the worst of it. Her forehead is still bleeding, and it feels like there’s a tennis ball jutting out the side of her face. She finds herself touching the protrusion every now and then with trembling fingers, as if doubting its presence.

Linka zones out for a while, staring listlessly at the tubes and oxygen ports on the far wall. The sound of a flash bulb goes off. The room turns white, and she recoils as another photograph is taken close to her face, and the subsequent recharge as the camera warms up for the next shot.

Gi hovers just outside of the doorway, peeking inside every now and then as the nurses administer the painkillers in a small paper cup. Gi is still distraught, her face tear stained and blotchy. A snotty handkerchief is clutched in her hand, but she soon disappears amidst the movement in the room and low hum of conversation going on around her.

Linka swallows the tablets with the water provided, fighting the urge to dry-retch. Her stomach is empty anyway, having regurgitated her last meal all over Wheeler’s shoes earlier in the day.

A right-hook to the stomach will do that to you.

She wraps Wheeler’s jacket tighter around her body, refusing to part with it, even when offered a hospital gown. The jacket is massive on her slim frame, bulky and loose around the shoulders, but the fabric is warm and it smells like his cologne, and it goes a long way toward calming her.

There’s nothing underneath but bare skin, since Andre Kroi tore her shirt and bra to shreds with his bare hands only a couple of hours earlier in a moment of sexual violence and toxic male entitlement.

It just reconfirms her generally low opinion on such things, validates the suspicion that she’s no more than a vagina on legs, really. An object of gratification. Wiping another tear away, she lets out a shaky breath at the knowledge that two men have now seen her partially or fully naked, and neither of them thought her particularly worthy of time and due consideration.

Her friends are finally allowed inside the small room. Linka watches them file in as she rubs the welts around her wrists; the skin rubbed raw from the rope Kroi used to bind her.

The female detective is quiet and softly spoken. She says all the right things, treating the unpleasant conversation respectfully. Linka answers her questions haltingly, wiping away the odd tear that slips down her cheek and hating herself for it all the while.

Her eyes keep drifting to Wheeler.

He remains in a heightened mood, raging internally, his shoulders squared and his eyes dark and dangerous. He looks ready to snap someone in half, and she’s reminded that he very nearly did.

Seated in the recliner in the corner, he’s attended to by a nurse who inspects his right hand, poking and prodding gently. His knuckles are torn to shreds, and she doesn’t miss the grimace of pain on his face when they locate the sore spots.

There’s some talk of hairline fractures between attending physicians. Wheeler is soon whisked away to the radiology department, and Kwame and Ma-Ti leave her side to go with him.

She stares at Wheeler’s now-empty seat as someone drops onto the bed beside her.

“You okay?” Gi asks worriedly, taking Linka’s hand and clasping it warmly within her own. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” she whispers, wiping away another tear. “Is Wheeler all right?”

“Something about a metacarpal fracture.” Gi squeezes her hand gently, taking care not to touch Linka’s broken nails. “They need to do scans.”

“I should not have gone off on my own,” she whispers, feeling another rush of hot guilt. “I should have stayed —”

“It’s not your fault the guy can’t keep it in his pants,” Gi seethes. Eying Linka’s swollen face worriedly, she hands over a blue icepack wrapped in a paper towel. “Sadistic bastard.”

“Is it bad?” she asks in a small voice, touching her face again, too scared to view her own reflection. “Does it look —”

“Give it a few days,” Gi murmurs, inspecting the dressing covering Linka’s forehead. “Bastard really did a number on you.”

Linka closes her eyes, steeling herself against the almighty throb behind her temple.

“Are you sure nothing happened?” Gi asks nervously, for the fourth time since Wheeler had carried her out of the shed, having beaten the man responsible for all this to a bloody pulp. “Like, he didn’t…”

Linka doesn’t answer, and Gi bites her lip.

“I’m sorry.” Gi fidgets beside her. “I’m just… I’m just worried. I’m not entirely sure… I’m not sure what happened. You were in shock, and Wheeler wasn’t capable of sayin’ much by then and…"

“I… uh…”

Linka trails off with a sigh, slumping back against the pillows and re-positioning the ice pack against her temple. She knows the details Gi isn’t clear on and is unsure how to proceed; not sure what words to use, by way of explanation.

Because Kroi wasn’t successful. She wasn’t raped, or fucked, or penetrated — all vulgar, violent and sadistic terms, but there’s no sugar-coating the outcome of this conversation.

But Gi is stressed, her face wretched and doleful, and Linka has barely said a word about what happened in the time that followed. She knows Gi needs some closure for her own state of mind.

“I… he tried, but Wheeler found me in time. Nothing happened,” she assures her, gesturing toward her swollen face. “Apart from this.”

“Why would that creep hit you like that?” she says angrily.

“I fought back,” she sniffs, repositioning the ice pack lower down. “He did not like it.”

Something like pride flashes across Gi’s face for a fraction of a second, before it’s replaced by concern once again.

“God, you gave us all a fright,” Gi admits. “For a moment there, I was worried Wheeler was gonna go back and finish the bastard off.”

“I know.”

“Thank God he found you when he did.” Gi gazes at her worriedly, stroking Linka’s matted hair away from her forehead. “Are you going to press charges?”

“I do not want this getting out,” she says, suddenly tearful and overwhelmed. “I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“I want the whole thing buried.”

Gi purses her lips but doesn’t argue. She sighs, stroking Linka’s palm. “Do you want me to ring your brother —”

“No,” she says, shaking her head vehemently, and the tears start falling again.

* * *

A few necks could do with a good hypothetical throttling.

She burns silently, sinking further into her seat and gritting her teeth, rueing the day she allowed herself to step into an unmarked, government vehicle and allow these bureaucratic bunglers the chance to mis-manage the entire ordeal.

It’s been more stress than it’s worth.

There’s a projection on the far wall of the meeting room. The drop-down screen glows green, with a running script descending at a rapid rate. It ebbs and flows, changing, too fast for the brains in the room to analyse.

But that’s always been the problem, the evolving coding, and the level of self-awareness that SAIP demonstrates, guided by a benevolent, digital caretaker — a sentient program with a penchant for both sarcasm and ebullient, saccharine conversation. Sour and sweet. A potent mix, one that still causes Linka’s head to spin.

Doctor Blight’s bosom buddy.

The lime-green digital rain never falters. MAL is in there somewhere, embedded within the programming.

There are twelve men in business attire seated around a mahogany table, and her inclusion, as always, feels tokenistic at best. The only other woman to make an appearance usually strolls in meekly at around midday, offering fresh coffee and snacks, pushed around the table using an ornate silver trolley.

It’s the same woman every time, and she always serves Linka first, smiling at her encouragingly before finishing her round and making a hasty getaway, as if privy to the shared understanding of the nature of the wolf’s den Linka has found herself in.

The boys club mentality is getting worse. With every visit to Washington, Linka becomes more pissed off and disheartened.

It’s her sixth visit to Washington, and she’s fed up with their dismissive attitudes and know-it-all tendencies. The politics and sleaze factor is off the charts.

The Deputy Director in charge of this debacle scares the shit out of her; a tall, intimidating man in his early sixties with a hardened face and a permanently pissed-off expression. Sitting at the head of the table, the man rubs his forehead while his two bullterriers argue beside him about the best course of action.

“The launch codes have disappeared into thin air! Who the hell knows where or who has them in their possession —“

“Our surveillance teams have been monitoring the usual suspects, but we’ve come up empty —"

“RIGHT!” the Director shouts over the noise, and Linka sits bolt upright, startled. “WHAT DO WE KNOW?”

“We’ve tried the encryption backdoors. Updated algorithms and installed malware,” an intelligence operative adds, “but it’s only treating the symptom, not the source,”

Another voice pipes up. “There was an attempt this week made on a nuclear power plant in Iran, tracked through a server in Israel. We managed to isolate the deviations and intercept them, but for every one we take down, another two take its place.”

“So she’s found more buyers for the software?”

“We’ve looked for the usual backdoors, exploitable weaknesses and vulnerabilities in the systems that have been affected,” another man chimes in, “tried to isolate the infiltration and path of the software, study the rate of infection.”

“We need the source if we’re to act —”

“We’re getting slammed,” another mutters, rubbing his face tiredly. “We can’t keep up.”

“How many active buyers are out there?”

“Eight that we know of,” the man beside Linka chimes in, an intelligence agent who has always been very kind toward her. “Three we currently have tabs on. The other five are whereabouts unknown.”

“And Blight?”

“We have not seen her in months,” Linka replies, drumming her nails on the timber. “We know she has a laboratory somewhere, but we cannot locate her. She has gone off grid.”

“Any intel on what she might be up to?”

Linka sighs, recalling the priceless artworks they had seen on their last altercation with her. “She is using SAIP to acquire things.”

“Acquire what things?”

“Anything that interests her, really,” Linka explains. “It is just a suspicion, based on our past dealings with her and the fact that the manifest items that we cannot track or find seem to have —

“— her name written all over them?”

Linka nods. “Scientific equipment. Genetic engineering and cloning technology. We think she is continuing to conduct experimentation on animals, as well as interfering with human DNA, namely introducing radioactive components and studying the effects.”

“Why?”

“Because she can,” Linka says, shrugging. “Because she wants to? We do not know. Over the years, her actions have become more and more… what is the word —”

“Unhinged?”

Linka nods, keeping the latest missing object to herself, a disused 1960’s particle accelerator from a non-descript warehouse in Geneva. She and Kwame certainly scratched their heads at that implications of that one.

“Incompetence,” the chief analyst sneers in her direction, trading a knowing glance with the moustached man beside him.

“Excuse me?” Linka glares back at him. Buck-toothed Dave has a ‘little man’ complex, doing he all he can to undermine and devalue her work and contributions, scoring points off her to impress his superiors, and to be quite honest, Linka is getting sick of it.

“You eco-idiots had the chance to deal with her before all this shit hit the fan.”

“Deal with her how?” she seethes. “Please enlighten me —"

“We could have avoided all this if you and your buddies had done your job properly.” 

“Well, Blight was not supplying the means to acquire weapons of mass destruction at that time,“ Linka snaps. “And for all our efforts in keeping her contained, your courts kept letting her go!”

Dave smirks, tossing his pen to the table and regarding her smugly. “Superhero wannabes with your fancy rings, strutting around the planet, and you can’t even contain a five-foot four middle-aged blonde scientist with —”

“We are environmentalists,” she retorts, her fists clenched. “Counter-terrorism and cyber espionage was never part of our job description. That is meant to be your area of expertise —”

”So why are you here?” he goads. “Why are you —"

“I was asked to consult,” she says, exasperated. “I am consulting."

“Consulting fuck-all,” Dave mutters, just within her earshot.

“So we upload now?” The forensic agent gestures toward the running script. “We take our chances and —”

“Blight will have anticipated this. It could do more harm than good.”

“We need more time —" Linka pleads. “Blight would have been prepared for this —"

“We don’t _have_ time,” the Director retorts. “Next thing they’ll be going for is the federal reserve.”

Linka sighs, running her thumb over her wrist, the ghost of Kroi’s bindings still marking her skin. She gazes up at the Director pleadingly. “We cannot underestimate Blight… or MAL —"

“A chemical weapons facility was raided last week. They had the entry codes, knew the staff roster. They even took possession of the security system and surveillance equipment. Gained complete control with the press of a button.”

“But if we were to deliver the payload now and it fails, we will miss our only window,” Linka retorts. “Blight will no doubt re-program the CPU and upgrade her security and firewalls, shutting us out for good. We will lose the upper hand —"

“We don’t have the upper hand!” Dave sneers.

“We are already up to the fifth SAIP update. Taking away the element of surprise by uploading this before it is ready puts us at a disadvantage. It is too great a risk if it does not work —”

Dave rolls his eyes. “And I suppose a midnight delivery of napalm on an unsuspecting Syrian village is an acceptable risk to you tree-huggers?”

“I will say it again,” she sighs. “This is not our work. It was never meant to be. We had ten-thousand hectares of rainforest razed in Colombia and Peru last week, yet we were held up again, dealing with SAIP and —”

“You’re meant to be an expert,” he says, rolling his eyes, and she resists the urge to throw her pastry at him.

“I have a computer science background and years of experience with Barbara Blight... and MAL. But I am hardly an expert —"

“So essentially, you’re telling us nothing we don’t already know?”

“I’m telling you the direction I feel we should go in, and you are dismissing my —”

“Look, Russian Barbie,” Dave coos, his words dripping with condescending undertones. “You obviously don’t have the stomach — or the brains — for making the hard decisions. Why don’t you head home to your dolls and cup-cake baking. Let the big boys handle it, hmm?”

“Testosterone is by no means a measure of intelligence,” she snaps back. “You are a prime example of that, _Dave_ ,” she says mockingly, and the room falls quiet.

A few of the agents look away, smirking, and Dave hunches down into his seat, appearing suitably aghast. He stays quiet, sullen and red-faced as the arguments erupt again.

Linka stands wearily, pushing her chair aside and heading for the long table by the entrance. There’s a large urn boiling in the centre, with rudimentary tea and coffee facilities. She refills her mug with steaming water and rips open the tea bag packaging, pretending it’s Dave’s self-righteous head. She dunks it savagely for a while, drowning his imaginary buck-toothed sloppy mass, sloshing water over the side as she stares off into space.

The green glow in the room brightens, and she glances again at the SAIP coding streaming down the wall, projected by the —

Only the script has vanished.

A face has appeared instead, lime green and grinning ghoulishly, and she stares at it for a moment, the blood rushing from her face, too shocked to speak straight away.

“MAL,” she finally breathes, her fingers going limp. Losing her grip, the mug falls to the floor, shattering loudly into pieces and diverting the attention of the room. A shocked silence descends, all eyes suddenly focused on the apparition before them.

“Hello,” a sly voice drawls. “Am I interrupting?”

The program seems to scan the faces, taking everything in. After thirty seconds of a tense checkmate, MAL’s gaze finally settles on Linka, and his grin widens.

“Well hello, there!”

MAL greets her like an old friend, calling her by name. Enquiring about her brother, her teammates, even lamenting the weather, while she gives him nothing more that stilted, one-word responses, clutching the edge of the refreshments table with an iron grip, the implications of this conversation going around and around in her head.

MAL’s enquiries are polite and effusive. He mentions hospital records and enquires about her wellbeing. He starts listing the injuries, feigning concern, and Linka’s mouth falls open and her face reddens in embarrassment.

MAL finally turns his attention on the FBI agents in the room, some of whom are on their feet now, wary and on edge.

They bark questions, and MAL answers with glee, marvelling at his own existence, the brilliance of his programming. The inbuilt defence mechanisms, designed to withstand attempts to destroy him. The undeniable truth; that MAL sees all, hears all and knows all.

He is everywhere and nowhere. Indestructible. Failsafe. Judge, jury and executioner.

_I am the future._

“What are you?” the Director sneers, interrupting another ego-driven proclamation.

_I am truth. I am the remedy._

His grinning visage turns skull-like for a fraction of a second, flashing against the screen before fading entirely.

The power goes out and everything turns black.

The room descends into utter chaos.

“Shit,” a voice grunts, and Linka hears someone typing furiously onto their personal computer. “Shit, shit, shit —"

“What in the hell was that —”

“It’s hacking us,” a voice pipes up. “It’s bypassed the firewall and —”

“Shut it down!”

“I have no control —”

“Get control!”

“What’s the bloody thing after?”

“Accessing our database… encrypted files… special ops —"

“Kill the hard line!”

“Hard line’s connected to the mains —"

A rush of air passes by Linka, and she recoils as someone shoves blindly past her, hurtling out the door.

The secondary power kicks in and the room lights up red, tripping the fire alarms.

“MAL knows I am here,” Linka whispers. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “He knows —"

Another unpalatable thought occurs to her, and she rubs her face, staring at the now empty screen.

_Blight knows that I am here._

“How the hell did that thing hack our security —”

“Bastard was in our servers —"

“Why?”

“It’s mocking us, demonstrating a show of power —"

“Well, it’s doing a fucking good job of it —” Dave snarls back, just as full power is restored. The lights blink back on one by one and the projector beeps, the whirr of the motor heard above the agitated voices.

“This is not good.” Linka stares at the Director imploringly. “Blight will know I am here —”

“An acceptable risk, _sweetheart_ ,” Dave snaps. He glances at the others, pushing his agenda further. “We need to upload the virus —"

Linka throws her hands in the air. “And you will risk wiping out your entire server and database in an attempt to isolate the problem! You heard what he said! MAL will have no doubt have contingencies! He will be prepared for this —”

“Why do you keep calling it a ‘he?” Dave retorts, almost accusingly.

“Are we going to debate gender preference?” Linka shouts back. “MAL has designated himself as a male entity. What pronoun do you suggest I call him?”

“Well, you’re on a first name basis with it. You two seemed pretty cosy back there —”

“Oh, come off it,” she snarls, borrowing one of Wheeler’s oft-used phrases. “You cannot be —"

“Go back and beat your street, enviro-girl,” Dave sneers in her direction as several agents file out of the room, balancing portable computers and paperwork. He shoves past her, nearly sending her sprawling. “You’re out of your depth.”

“ _Po'shyol 'na hui_ ,” she snarls back, stalking back toward the table. She gathers her things and strides out, irate and pissed off, wiping tears away in frustration.

Ma-Ti is waiting for her in the foyer, sitting on a leather sofa and reading a magazine. She steps out of the elevator and steam might as well be issuing from her ears. She's so angry. She feels utterly betrayed by the men's club upstairs.

Ma-Ti is up and on his feet as soon as he sees her face, startled to see tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What happened?" he calls in a worried tone, clearly not expecting to see her in such a state.

She strides past him and pushes through the glass doors, and Ma-Ti follows, hurrying to keep up.

* * *

“How did the surgery go?” Linka asks, pausing her unpacking efforts as Kwame walks wearily through her door.

He shrugs, dumping his backpack and sinking into an armchair in the corner of her hut, careful not to dislodge the two piles of books loaded up beside him.

“Still groggy,” he says, touching the bandage gingerly. “I will know more in a few days. I doubt there is much else they can do.”

“It does not look so bad,” she says kindly. “Fourth time?”

“Yes. They mentioned the possibility of further skin grafts for the next surgery,” he says, “but I am more worried about the appearance of the grafts at this point.”

“It is your decision.”

He shrugs, winking at her. “Wheeler tells me that ‘chicks dig scars’, so there is hope for me yet.”

Linka hides a smile, resting her novel against her chest as she rubs her eyes tiredly.

“Eye strain?” he asks, his eyes travelling over the mountains of dusty books and paperwork piled up on every spare surface.

“I need glasses,” she laments. “I am putting off making an appointment.”

“You will ruin your vision, Linka,” Kwame says sagely.

“It is too late for that.”

“We are the walking wounded, aren’t we,” he laments, glancing around her hut and noticing more mess, as well as the open boxes lining her walls in neat rows. “Are you moving? Have I missed something?”

“Mishka has been sorting through the house,” she explains, leaning over and rifling through a large bag on her bedside table. “He has moved back home.”

“I thought he was living with a —”

“His roommate lost his job, and Mishka could not afford to stay on his own. The mine is running out of reserves, so he is unsure how much longer he will have paid employment.”

“Really?”

“He is dating someone else, though,” she says absently. “Lidiya, I think her name is.”

“What happened to Natalya?”

“Gone,” she sighs. “His relationships never seem to last for longer than six months.”

“Relationships are hard.”

She shrugs. “I finally get to know one, and he’s already onto the next…”

Linka finds herself pondering her brother’s situation at times, all too aware of the implications. She wonders if Mishka faces his own demons, brought on by the trauma of their childhood, wonders if he commits to women too often, yet far too briefly; perpetually restless and seeking something more than he is capable of accepting.

And then, by contrast, Linka herself, who wallows in self-inflicted loneliness, keeping men at arm’s length… even the ones she deems worthy.

The _one_ she deems worthy.

“Have you told Mishka?” Kwame asks.

“Told him about what?” she sighs.

Kwame cocks his head, regarding her with mild annoyance. “Have you told him about Kroi?”

“No.”

“Will you tell him?”

“No,” she says firmly. “No, absolutely not. He would be beside himself.”

He nods, knowing her answer is final and not even bothering to argue. He picks up another book from the pile beside him and sits back, flicking through the pages.

Popping an apple slice into her mouth, she glances up at him shyly. “Georgetown have offered me a place.”

“What?” Kwame staggers to his feet, a delighted smile on his face. “Really?”

“Yes,” she laughs, rising to her knees and accepting the fierce bear hug he offers.

“I am thrilled for you,” he says warmly, squeezing her tightly. “Oh Linka, you have worked so hard for this!”

“I will defer my first year for now,” she says, hugging him back.

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you.”

“We should go out and celebrate!”

“I am enjoying being home,” she admits. “After so long away, the celebrations can wait.”

“Content to organise your way through this mess and wallow in peace?”

“Chocolate may also be involved, later,” she says warmly. “That is all the celebration I need.”

“Do not tell Wheeler. He has a penchant for chocolate… amongst other things.” He smiles at her knowingly, releasing her.

She sinks back onto her bed again, offering him a piece of apple.

He shakes his head, returning to the chair and carefully returning the books to their respective piles. “Where will you put them all?” he asks, gesturing again toward the thick novels.

“I have no idea,” she says, gesturing toward the novels she spent an hour sorting through before giving up. “My bookshelves are full.”

“Most people collect memories,” Kwame says, rolling his eyes. “You collect words.”

“Words and stories… Characters. Adventures,” she says softly. “They are good company. They keep me warm at night.”

“A good man would do the same,” he chuckles. “Or so I have heard.”

“Authors stay with you,” she sighs. “Books and stories… they take me away to another place. They remain with you.”

“They remain with you?” Kwame raises his eyebrows questioningly. He leans forward, considering her words carefully. “And a good man does not?”

“Are you giving me ‘the talk,’ Kwame?” she asks, amused. “Because it is a little late for explanations about the birds and the buzzards —"

He chuckles. “I am just saying that by burying your nose in dust-coated pages, I worry that you will miss living in the moment.”

She bites her lip, folding the page into her usual dog-eared corner, knowing that books have always been her safety net.

They don’t break her trust or her heart. They don’t judge, or discriminate against her, or insult or offend her knowingly.

They certainly don’t deride her, or treat her with disdain. They don’t leave her bruised and battered in the dirt, bleeding and crying in pain.

They don’t leave her alone, wretched and miserable and grieving. She thinks back to The Brother’s Grimm novel, the one that gathered dust on her bedside table during her childhood. It’s in here somewhere, amongst the piles, having fulfilled the requisite rotation at her family grave site.

Books have been the one constant in her tumultuous life.

“Books don’t leave,” she sighs, settling back again.

“We are not all like _him_ , my friend,” Kwame says gently. “Men, I mean. Kroi is the exception. He is certainly not the rule.”

“You are worried about me?” she surmises, clasping her hands in her lap and meeting his gaze.

“I just want to see you happy. I feel you are still holding a piece of yourself back. I fear you are at risk of missing out on meaningful opportunities and connections because you are frightened of losing —”

“You cannot lose what you never had,” she says absently.

“You cannot live if you’ve never loved,” Kwame counters without hesitation, and she sits there, stunned as he gets to his feet, dusting of his work shorts and leaving her to it, closing her door softly behind him.

* * *

Halfway through bandaging up a young man’s bloodied arm, she hears the sonic boom and feels the shockwave, followed by the faint sound of screaming. She glances up worriedly as the walls of the makeshift hospital tremble, and Linka hopes the boys aren’t anywhere near the chaos.

They’re running late for their evening pick-up on the other side of town now, courtesy of the late afternoon car bomb wiping out the nearby produce market four blocks away.

Patients are soon brought in, limp and bloodied in the back of ambulances that are simple civilian cars and panel vans with a red cross taped to the roof. Linka spends the next thirty minutes doing what she can, until Ma-Ti tugs on her sleeve, his face grim.

_We have to go._

They can’t stay.

Kabul is dangerous enough during the day, but it’s no place to be for outsiders at night, where Taliban enforcers roam the streets, heavily armed and looking to dish out their own brand of corporal punishment.

Three Danish aid workers have lost their lives this month alone. The odds aren’t great, even with their elements.

The vehicles should be waiting outside, supposedly ready to drop them off to the rendezvous point where several aid agencies will converge.

It’s all been pre-arranged, the pooling of resources, getting a lift out of this hellhole with a military escort to the outskirts of town, to the airfield.

She hasn’t seen Kwame and Wheeler in five days and she misses them greatly, the boys having spent their time divided between the WFP and the local militia.

They reluctantly bid the local medical team farewell, spilling out onto the front steps as the sun goes down around them.

The convoy vehicles, however, are nowhere to be seen.

They stay huddled close to the far corner of the steps, spending the next few minutes debating what to do next. Linka stands passively, eyeing a stray dog wandering toward them. It has a pronounced limp, but the sound of another vehicle seems to startle it. The dog scampers off down an alleyway.

The car rattles past, a champagne-colored Datsun with a door missing and four heavily-cloaked men squashed inside.

“Don’t think that’s our ride, somehow,” Gi laments, and even the unflappable Water Planeteer is looking nervous.

“We’ll miss our window,” one of the aid workers says worriedly, tucking her hair beneath the restrictive face garment. “It’s three blocks to the meeting point. I think we’re better off walking.”

They head off on foot, staying close to the charred and crumbling buildings, treading carefully through the debris. There’s ten of them in total: Linka, Gi and Ma-Ti, as well as five aid workers from CARE and two local contacts, who speak limited English but seem to know the way.

Linka clutches the heavy burqa around her. She’s sweating up a storm despite the cold, mid-winter temperatures. The little mesh window box around her eyes offers limited vision, but a woman caught without it around here faces the consequence of a bullet to the head… and that’s if she’s lucky.

Far worse has transpired here since the Taliban wrested control from the hands of the government. Their guide, Abdul talks softly, and Ma-Ti translates. They pass the entry gates to a football stadium, the site of mass public executions and hangings. Two of Abdul’s relatives were among those who died here, dragged in and shot, falsely accused, like so many, of bearing arms against the Taliban while the crowds chanted.

The grass no longer grows, the blood still seeping from the ground, and Linka swallows the revulsion rising in her throat.

They walk faster, and Linka is soon out of breath. The streets are becoming deserted, a fact that worries Linka more and more as the minutes tick by. There are no streetlights here, nor running water, or available food. Blundering around in the dark, lost in a hostile territory known for its murderous regime is not something she takes lightly.

Another stray dog paws at something just up ahead, tugging at an object lying dead and rotting in the gutter, and Linka looks away in disgust.

The last block is completed at a jogging pace, and she’s exhausted by the time they reach the agreed meeting point, chosen for the location and the multiple exits available to them should the convoy come under fire.

Her heart sinks when she realises there are no military vehicles here to meet them… again.

“Oh, for God’s sake —” Gi mutters. “What the hell?”

“Something is wrong,” Linka says. She adjusts her head dress for what seems like the thirtieth time today and folds her arms across her chest, turning her head away from the freezing blasts of wind assaulting them. “Surely they would not leave us here?”

Gi looks just as nervous. “This was the rendezvous point, right?”

“ _Da_.”

There’s another group of five people huddled beneath the eaves of a bombed out supermarket, and Ma-Ti jogs over to meet them. Linka cranes her neck, looking for any sign of Wheeler or Kwame, who should also be here by now.

She finds none, so she waits patiently for Ma-Ti to return, feeling somewhat concerned.

“The Norwegians,” he pants, still out of breath himself. “They have been waiting here for forty-five minutes. No one has come.”

“Are you kidding me?” Gi says, incredulous. “What do you mean? Are we stuck for the —”

“They have radioed through and received no response.”

“Is there an operation or a raid happening tonight?” Linka wonders aloud. “Did they forget us?”

“There are twenty-five people to pick up in total,” Ma-Ti says, glancing around worriedly. “Multiple agencies involved, including us. I doubt they simply forgot.”

“Or they were diverted… or communications were lost,” Linka says, closing her eyes, reminded of the damage SAIP was doing to worldwide emergency and military services. She scratches her fabric-covered face wearily. “ _Bozhe moi,_ the agency will not cope well with this news.”

“I was looking forward to some cute marines in uniform,” Gi sighs. “Damn.”

Ma-Ti gives her a stern look. “I am more worried about our safety right now, Gi.”

“What about the other groups?” Linka asks.

“The ARO is still in transit, on foot —”

“Are the boys all right?”

“They are fine. I have made contact. There was an armed roadblock and they had to make a detour. They will meet up with us later,” he says, distracted by one of local afghan men looking worried and trying to get his attention. “Hang on…”

He jogs back over and converses with the bearded man while Linka stands nervously, thumbing her wind ring around her finger. Her mother’s ring no longer fits her, relegated to the little pewter jewellery box on her bedside table. 

Old habits die hard.

“I really don’t wanna stay here tonight,” Gi sighs. “I’m filthy.”

“We have no supplies,” Linka says softly. “Everything is in the Cruiser.”

The British aid team are moving, and Linka’s eyes follow their departure with mild alarm.

“We need to leave,” Ma-Ti says. “There are squads roaming. There is a curfew in effect. We cannot compete with killing squads wearing assault rifles and night vision equipment.”

They start moving again, following Abdul, keeping out of sight as best they can.

Linka is frightened. The burqa is large and cumbersome, and it’s pitch black. She holds tight to Ma-Ti’s hand, and feels Gi’s fingers clutching the back of her garment, a human chain fumbling their way through the dark.

They pass a wire fence and Gi jumps aside, startled as a vicious dog throws itself against the mesh, barking and growling.

“Shit,” she hisses, squeezing Linka’s hand in a panicky grip.

Abdul slips inside a narrow alley, and they follow, traversing through the rubbish and stacked crates. Linka spots the heads of the British workers bobbing ahead, led by the other local contact. The Norwegians are somewhere behind.

They eventually make a hard left, passing through a metal gate and Linka and the others follow. She glances back, watching as Abdul pulls it closed and locks it from the inside.

They ascend a set of narrow stairs, and she grabs Ma-Ti to keep herself from tripping on the blasted garment. She hears the sound of children’s laughter — universal in any language — coming through the walls, as well as the sound of pots clattering. The smell of cooking meat invades her nostrils, and her stomach rumbles, unaware of how hungry she is.

Inquisitive stares greet her as she reaches the top, and the introductions begin as they all file inside the cramped quarters. There are several families living together, including Abdul’s own, spread across the upper levels of the building. It’s a modest, basic set-up, the main living room bordered by low mattresses and cushions to form seats — a typical Afghani living arrangement. Children of various ages are lounging about while the adults perform their usual duties.

The place is clean, decorated in rich tones of red and gold, and the inhabitants are welcoming. They’re off the street and away from the roaming Taliban squads, and Linka is incredibly thankful for it.

The women here are either clad in the more religiously moderate hijab, or are completely uncovered, and Linka gives a sigh of relief as they gesture toward her robes, inviting her to free herself. She and Gi strip themselves in under ten seconds flat, their civilian clothes rumpled and damp underneath.

Accepting the glasses of water offered to them, they spend the next half hour getting acquainted with everyone. The British team keeps to themselves, loitering in the corner, but the Norwegians are friendly and talkative, and quite charming, really.

Linka helps with the meal, dropping to the floor and joining the women of the house in the circle, peeling potatoes and learning Arabic words for common kitchen implements and vegetables. She’s taught by a charming five-year-old girl who seems mesmerised by Linka’s hair and skin.

Fatimah touches her repeatedly, her little hands smoothing over Linka’s face and through her loose blonde curls until one of the mothers chases the girl from the room, armed with a potato peeler and a no-nonsense attitude.

A feast is laid out on the floor, heaped up in large plates laid over a large rug. Dumplings, meatballs, korma and various stews are on offer, and Linka and the others tuck in, grateful for the food and the good company.

Given the chance to wash up after the dinner has been cleared, Linka takes full advantage, using a bucket of hot water to clean herself up as best she can before retiring for the night. It’s cramped and there’s not a lot of floor space left, but she drags one of the living room mattresses to the corner, laying down tiredly, arranging a thick rug over her shoulders.

Gi has struck up a conversation with one of the Norwegian volunteers, and Linka smiles as they settle down together on the other side of the room, amongst the sea of bodies competing for space in the cramped quarters.

Keeping the empty staircase in view, she curls into a foetal position, shivering and still cold, the night air positively freezing. Her eyes lull closed and she dozes for a while, waking intermittently when someone’s foot nudges her in the night, or when the sound of gunfire cracks somewhere in the distance.

A light flicks on nearby, and voices eventually rouse her. She blinks sleepily, pushing herself up as five large shadows emerge one by one from the staircase. They lumber inside, following Abdul and disappearing into the kitchen, and Linka doesn’t miss the warm Brooklyn accent amongst them.

She gets to her feet and pads her way barefoot across the room, treading carefully around the sleeping bodies, trying hard not to wake them.

She enters the kitchen and spots Kwame straight away. Clutching a large glass, he downs the contents in three large gulps. Wheeler is slumped against the sink area next to two equally dishevelled foreign aid workers. He looks exhausted and filthy, but he glances up as Linka enters, and relief seems to flood through him.

“Aw, shit,” he murmurs tiredly, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her against him. He nuzzles his face into her neck with a heavy sigh, and her heart skips its usual beat at his close proximity.

“Hey, Yankee,” she mumbles against his chest.

“Jesus, am I glad to see you, babe.”

“What happened?” she breathes, hugging him back worriedly. “Where have you been?”

“Kept runnin’ into squads. Had to lose ‘em.”

“We saw raids on homes,” one of the volunteers adds. “There was an old man and two young girls dragged out right in front of us.”

“I may have melted a few assault rifles and machine guns,” Wheeler remarks, running a hand through his messy hair. “Drew some unwanted attention to ourselves.”

“Bastards were tailin’ us the whole way,” the aid worker sighs. “Couple of close calls.”

“We could not have them following us here,” Kwame explains, gesturing towards Abdul. “The implications would be disastrous for these people.”

Kwame places his glass on the bench and disappears into the sea of sleepers, sinking down into an available spot, and Linka heads back to her own mattress beneath the window, gesturing for Wheeler to follow.

“Are you all right?” she asks as they drop down onto the mattress. She rolls onto her side as he settles on his back beside her, tugging the rug around them.

“Not really,” he sighs. “You?”

“I am fine,” she replies, wriggling closer, intent on sharing his body heat. “Ma-Ti is worried.”

“Why?”

“Still no sign of Gaia,” she says softly. “He says he feels her energy fading.”

“Terrific,” he says tiredly. “What happened to our pick-up out of here?” He frowns, rolling over to face her. “Not that I woulda’ made it there on time,” he adds. Wrapping her hair around his finger, he watches the curls spring forth beneath the light glow of his ring.

“They did not turn up.”

“Marines missed the memo, huh?”

“Or something interfered with the communications.”

He rubs his face tiredly, sliding an arm around her waist, and she settles into the crook of his arm, her fingers splayed against his broad chest.

“How’d you get here, then?”

“Walked,” she replies, yawning. “Are we going home? Did Kwame say —”

“Nope,” he says glumly. “Macau or Hong Kong, I think. Can’t remember which one.”

“Sixty-three days,” she says absently, bumping her nose against his chin and feeling at least a week’s worth of stubble covering his face. “I miss home.”

“Babe?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you…” He shifts beside her, settling his cheek on the top of her head. “Have you ever thought about…”

“Thought about what?”

He lets a heavy breath outward, his fingers sliding against her hip. “Never mind.”

Wheeler’s breathing is deep and even, his face slack and peaceful, and she watches him fall easily into sleep in the usual, effortless manner. His hair is long and scruffy, starting to curl at the ends, lying over his closed eyelids.

“Yankee?”

“Mmm?” he mumbles.

She snuggles into him, her fingers curling against his shirt, glad as always to have him close.

“You need a haircut.”

“Mmm hmm.”

* * *

Gi stands with her arms folded, framed in the doorway of the latest apartment they’re all crowded into for the night. It’s the usual Hong-Kong version of a sardine box, and Gi would have had to negotiate her way around the sharp angles of the compact furniture to get here, as well as the bodies crammed into the tiny living area watching television.

Even manoeuvring oneself to the bathroom requires Tetris-like skills. Space here is at a premium.

Linka glances up again at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Gi’s eyebrow is cocked, and she wears a smug, knowing look on her face.

“Have a good night?”

“Mmm hmm,” Linka replies, burrowing her nose in her book, still dreamy and distracted by tonight’s venture out to the plush cinema in Kowloon, and the resulting Bruce Willis movie. The one she still can’t name, let alone remember.

There was a car chase. An explosion.

That’s about it, really.

The rest of the details are pretty hazy, lost in the memory of popcorn and chocolate-flavoured soggy bread balls. Or more specifically, the feeling of being in Wheeler’s arms, and his warm mouth moving gently against her own.

“So, how was it?”

“How was what?” Linka asks coyly. She turns the page, having read the same paragraph six times and still unable to process the stupid thing.

“How was what,” Gi mutters under her breath, flopping down and curling up beside her. She prods Linka’s pyjama-clad arm with glee. “You two locking lips a few rows in front of us ring a bell?”

“Maybe,” she says, her cheeks reddening behind the book.

“Hmm,” Gi says. “You two together, now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Birthday kiss,” she replies. “I took pity on him.”

“It’s really not supposed to be this difficult!” Gi gives an exasperated sigh. “You guys drive us nuts, you know that?”

“Mmm hmm,” Linka replies, non-committal as always. “I know.”

Gi sighs, picking loose threads off Linka’s pyjamas. “You know what you two remind me of?”

“Two emotionally-stunted _duraki_ who lack interpersonal skills?” she replies, turning another page of her book.

“Actually, yes,” she laughs. “but no.”

“You want to see us together?” she surmises.

“I want to see you _happy_ ,” Gi says, and there’s conviction and blind honesty behind that statement.

“I like him,” she sighs, admitting the blatantly obvious to Gi, for the first time ever. “I really like him.”

“I know.”

“I worry,” she sighs, tossing her book aside and rolling over to face Gi. “I worry we will burn bright and fade out just as fast.”

“You worry too much,” she replies, snuggling closer and grinning happily. “So how was it?”

“It was perfect,” Linka sighs dreamily, closing her eyes and letting it all wash over her again. “Just perfect.”

* * *

“I still wish you had told me you were attacked,” Mishka says, hugging her fiercely as she jumps down from the Geocruiser and into his waiting arms.

“I am sorry,” she whispers, her face pressed hard into his chest as the engine powers down behind her.

He sighs, waving to Gi as she struts past toward the farmhouse, her overnight bag hoisted over her shoulder. “Seeing your face pop up on Russia Today, along with that bastard’s mugshot was not exactly the highlight of my year.”

“I know.”

“It is good to see you, though. I appreciate the visit. I know how busy you all are.”

“We are on our way to Finland,” she says, by way of explanation. “We thought we might stay the night.”

“You look good, regardless of current events,” he says, smiling down at fondly. “Your face keeps changing.”

“Lack of sleep will do that to you,” she laments.

“No,” he says, studying her closely. “You look more and more like mother, every time I see you.”

She bumps her forehead against his chest, glancing at Wheeler as he passes the pair of them, talking loudly to Ma-Ti and laden with bags and supplies for their overnight stay.

“Do I owe him a bottle of Vodka?” Mishka asks, tracing the faint scar on her temple, the only remaining evidence marking her skin.

“Probably.”

“I am still considering surgically grafting that man to you.” He pinches her nose. “Or perhaps magnets… or super glue —”

“That is really not necessary.”

“You should have told me, Little Linka.”

“I will never live this down, will I?”

“No,” he laughs. “Come. I have food cooking for you all.”

They step inside, and Linka takes the opportunity to wander the house on her own. The place looks so different. The floorboards sound louder beneath her feet than usual, and she supposes it’s due to less furniture muffling the sound and vibrations.

The house seems emptier, devoid of its usual cluttered character. Mishka is doing a good job, sorting through their shared life and history, keeping what’s meaningful and donating whatever is left over.

She takes over the cooking from Mishka, and he disappears with Wheeler for an hour, no doubt intending to gain a little insight into past events. Gi helps prepare the meal, while Kwame and Ma-Ti unpack and settle down in the living room.

Later, when her belly is full and the house is dark and quiet, she sneaks down the hallway and finds Wheeler in his usual spot, on the sofa with the television on, regarding the screen with a blank stare as rapid-fire Russian spits from the droning announcers.

“Can’t understand fuck-all,” he grumbles, lifting the blanket, and she laughs as she joins him on the sofa, wriggling back against his chest as he curls his body around hers. “How dare they use commentators who don’t speak English.”

“Why are you watching it, then?”

“I assumed basketball was a universal sport and I’d be able to keep up,” he laments. “I was wrong.”

“You bounce a ball and throw it into a hoop, Yankee,” Linka giggles. “How hard can that be to interpret?”

“You’re tellin me...”

“You and Mishka were late for dinner.”

“Yep.” 

“Where were you?”

“Shed.”

She frowns, curious. “What did the two of you talk about, tonight?”

“Cross dressin’,” Wheeler remarks. “Wanted my opinion on a few new skirts he’d —”

She thumps him, and he chuckles, flopping an arm across her waist and nuzzling into her neck.

“Just talkin’ shit,” he says tiredly. “Kept sayin’ he approves…”

“Approves of what?”

“Dunno,” he answers, sounding confused. “By then, we’d downed two thirds of a bottle of vodka. Things got pretty hazy after that.”

“That was all you talked about?” she prods gently, worried about the possible topics of conversation that may have come up. “Did he ask you about Kroi?”

“Yeah, amongst other things.”

“Such as?”

“He asked me what my intentions were.”

“Regarding what?”

“Regarding you.”

“ _Bozhe moi,”_ she mutters, embarrassed. Running her fingers over his weathered knuckles, she traces the bumps and misshapen spots. “What did you tell him?”

“That I had every intention of stealing any left-over dessert from your plate, tonight,” he says, his voice low and suggestive, and she can’t help but laugh.

* * *

About eight cows are grazing their way through the cemetery, having broken through the fences bordering the graves. They stare sullenly at Linka as she makes her way toward the gate, leading Wheeler onward. One of the cows breaks away from the others, walking slowly toward them.

“Look at the size of those horns,” Wheeler laments, eyeing the bull nervously. “That thing’s not gonna charge, right?”

“You are not scared, are you, Yankee?”

“I’m a concrete jungle kinda guy,” he laments, glancing back again. “I don’t do animals.”

“I doubt they would find you that attractive, Yankee.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters.

She leads him on, taking advantage while she’s here in her motherland, bringing the latest object of importance to introduce to her parents, feeling the need to present _him_ , the one she deems worthy of navigating the bulls and the bushes and brambles.

The one who _still_ makes her knees wobble and her heart skip a beat, and causes other parts of her body to throb and flutter. 

The one she pines for secretly; blissful and content in his presence. The one who offers both safety and uncertainty in one, tantalising package. The one who beats men to a bloody pulp and loses his temper easily, and swears like a sailor, and leaves his clothes and possessions wherever they fall in a manner that should upheave her perfect, orderly life. The one who should be utterly and completely wrong for her.

The one who runs his fingers through her hair at night with such gentle ministrations, when it’s just the two of them, curled up on the sofa and pretending to be something other than what they really are.

And avoiding what they probably should be.

The one who feels like home, wherever they are. The one who she finds herself liking a little more each day, until she’s unsure if the word _like_ is applicable any longer. If the term is outdated and no longer fits the characteristics required for the manner of quiet, adoring reverence she directs toward him.

“This way,” she says, turning at the famine section of the cemetery, the crosses barely visible due to the unkept nature of the grass growing between them. The vault looms ahead and she quickens her pace, seeing Wheeler’s mouth drop open.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Uh…”

She laughs at the almost comical expression on his face. “Is it not the ugliest thing you have ever seen?”

“I wasn’t gonna say nothin’, but holy hell —” he says wonderingly, staring at the gothic, ornate corners. “Is that a gargoyle? Jesus —”

“My great, great aunt had it commissioned,” Linka explains, dropping down into her usual sitting position and inviting Wheeler to do the same. “She was a little… how do you say —”

“Completely fuckin’ tasteless?” is his blithe response.

“You could say that,” she says, hiding a smile. “She inherited money from one of her husbands. She was known to be quite… uh…egg… egg-cent —”

“Eccentric?”

“Yes.” She runs a hand over the roughened walls, then picks up a notebook left behind from her last visit, weathered by the elements. She peers inside, turning the pages, revisiting the rambling thoughts she’d left her parents on previous occasions. “It is owned by my family. We all end up here, eventually.”

“Which ones are —”

“Here.” She leans forward, touching the two bottom engravings before getting down to business, tidying up and weeding with her bare hands. “I have not been here in over twelve months,” she laments.

Wheeler squints, reading the Russian script. “How’d they meet?”

“My papa fell in love with her,” she sighs, cleaning the smudges off her mother’s plaque. “She was a ballet dancer. She was beautiful, and kind, and very shy, I am told.

“Yeah, that figures,” he says, smiling at her knowingly. “Do you remember her?”

“Not really. She died when I was five.”

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

“Aggressive cervical cancer,” she sighs. “She was gone within three months of diagnosis.”

“Jesus.”

“My papa died a few years later. There was a cave-in underground. The company had been cutting costs and increasing deadlines,” she utters, still feeling ill at ease talking about it. “It took them two days to dig down and reach my father’s body, along with the other two men who died.”

“You don’t talk about it much, do you?”

She nods. “I don’t like dwelling on the past,” she sighs.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I remember his hands,” she utters. “I remember they seemed so big. I remember what his body looked like in the coffin. I remember the colour of his shirt —”

“Jesus, Lin,” he says huskily.

“Sometimes, I wonder if his fingernails are still dirty… I read somewhere that hair and nails can grow even after death, and then I remember he was cremated.” She shrugs, staring ahead. “There is nothing left of him but ash, and I will never know.”

He takes her hand and enfolds it within his own. Considering her words for a moment, he strokes the inside of her palm with his thumb.

“Sixty years from now,” he ventures, “Sixty years, and you’ve lived a good life and the inevitable happens.” He sighs, eyeing the bulls again, now grazing between the crosses amongst the famine section. “Will you end up here?”

“I should…”

“Would you want to?” he asks, almost as an afterthought.

She thinks on it a moment, considering her options. “I do not think so.”

“No little plaque on a wall with your name on it? Starin’ down destiny in a concrete box?”

“No,” she whispers, squeezing his hand. “No. Burn my body and scatter me to the wind.”


	10. Twenty-Five (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to break this up into two parts. A twenty thousand word chapter was never gonna cut it.

The tiredness is all encompassing.

She feels it deep within her bones, a sense of weariness that no amount of mega multi-vitamin boost seems to cure.

Gi feels it too, Linka knows. Her face is pinched and drawn these days, and the energised pep in her step has been subdued by sheer exhaustion.

Linka craves a solid weekend, back on Hope Island, swimming and sipping daiquiris in the sun. Her toes digging into the sand is a faded memory now, as is the sun on her back and the ability to curl up with a good book, indulging in a concept known as free time, something she barely recognises anymore.

But they haven’t seen Hope Island in months.

They haven’t seen Gaia for just as long; their team now guided by the directives of panicked governments and secretive agencies hiding behind their own agendas. It’s hard to know who to trust these days; thrust from one dangerous situation to another with a pace that makes her head spin.

There’s only one constant in the frenetic madhouse that has become her day-to-day existence. It’s a knowledge she clings to, a revelation she holds close, and it gets her through the drudgery of FBI meetings, environmental disasters and SAIP-related transgressions.

Trust.

She trusts her teammates with her life. They’ve become her surrogate family, having replaced the faded echoes of family lost to illness, misfortune and time.

Kwame, just as solid and indestructible as the early days. She sees him as a lighthouse, steering their ship toward calmer waters, finding safe passage around the jagged rocks and sheer cliff-faces, and the obstacles unseen to their tired eyes.

But these days, the anchor is dragging badly, wrapped around his neck and slowly strangling the life out of him, forcing him down beneath the murky depths. Kwame’s face is lined and haggard, weighted by the responsibility that leadership brings. He’s brought up the idea of disbanding the group twice now, concerned for their ongoing safety, and like Wheeler, Linka has started considering her future away from the group.

She trusts Gi, and her crooked smile and her bright, hazel eyes, capable of such warmth and compassion and kindness. There’s a sadness there too, and Linka has realized over the years that Gi carries her own demons. She has trouble letting go, and has an almost irrational fear of abandonment. Linka hears her at night sometimes, fighting with Kwame, arguing about any future courses of action that he reluctantly brings to the table.

Gi continues fighting it with every fibre of her being.

Ma-Ti, the male mother hen of the group, who frets about their welfare; the peace-keeper, and someone Linka has grown exceptionally fond of. A young man now, he’s still the softly-spoken and sweet-natured person he always was, but there’s a pervading weariness behind his eyes.

He senses more than he should.

The fear, loss, frustration and pain emanating from those around him; not just the people he concentrates his power on, but strangers they encounter in the street. Voices in his head clamor for attention; whispers, shouts, screams and aggression. Sometimes visions accompany them; jarring and unpleasant, of misdeeds and violence perpetrated by nameless and faceless individuals.

Headaches now accompany Ma-Ti during their missions. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that he suffers badly from the effects of his element.

Ma-Ti retreats often, disappearing from their shared accommodation for hours, wandering the streets until he finds solace from the pain, seeming to take the opportunity to recharge his proverbial batteries. The ready smile seems painted on these days, at times resembling a pained grimace.

He also practically force-feeds Linka a foul concoction of herbs and tonics before their early morning missions, as if aware of the exhaustion she carries.

And Wheeler, her rock, both figuratively and literally.

The one who picks her up when she falls and puts her back on her feet again. The one she seeks out for comfort and affection on an ever-increasing basis. The one who gives the best bear hugs. The one who runs his fingers through her hair with the gentlest touch, and who has the bluest eyes she’s ever seen, and the warmest grin that makes her heart flutter.

The one she shares quiet kisses with inside crowded movie theaters…

Yet nothing more since.

The one who used to flirt so unashamedly with her, back in the early days, hurling cheap lines and propositions loaded with sexual innuendo…

Yet nothing more since.

He’s holding back, restrained and tempered _,_ when all she wants is for him to steam forward at full throttle. Bewildered, she hopes for the day when something will break the stalemate they’ve found themselves in.

Because he’s the one she dreams about in bed, under the cover of night. She finds herself fantasising about his calloused hands gliding over her bare skin, groping her flesh while she arches in pleasure beneath him. She dreams about his mouth on hers, his hard body pressed between her legs, thrusting deep inside her, claiming her as his own.

She’d offer herself freely.

If the propositions and cheap lines started up again, Linka would submit wholeheartedly… but they don’t. Hell, she’d settle for some quiet kisses by the fire, but the opportunity has yet to present itself.

They’re always together, the five of them, stuck in close quarters and getting in one-another’s way on a regular basis. Sleeping in the Geocruiser between missions, crammed into tiny hotel rooms and apartments — privacy has become non-existent.

So she waits, quiet and hopeful, resigning herself to simply being in his presence, tucked beneath his arm or dozing on his shoulder. Enjoying the rare moments when he reaches for her hand, or slides an arm around her waist, or props his chin on her shoulder during quiet times when he gets her alone. Or when they trade those secret, hidden glances; loaded with warmth, affection and unspoken promise.

The tiredness is all-encompassing, but so is the anticipation of what’s to come.

Something is on the horizon.

She feels that deep within her bones, too.

* * *

“Still hurt?” Gi asks.

Linka nods, shivering, curled up in a ball beside Gi. It’s dark and frigidly cold, as evidenced by her blind, fumbling need to relieve herself a few hours ago, a midnight pee break.

The tent walls whip loudly in the wind, and her collarbone aches from Skumm’s rough treatment earlier in the day.

“What time is it?” Linka breathes, her teeth chattering and her breath frosting in front of her.

“Two,” Gi grumbles. “I can’t feel my face.”

“We need to get up in three hours,” she says glumly.

“I think we need to upgrade our equipment.”

“I think we need to upgrade our employment.” Unsurprised by the lack of response, Linka sighs, wrapping her sleeping bag tighter around her chin.

“Do you have any spare socks?” she asks after a while; her feet feeling like two solid bricks of ice. “Mine are still wet.”

“Nah, sorry.”

Linka flexes her toes, annoyed at yet another packing fail on her behalf. Her feet are at least ten degrees colder than the rest of her. Random muscles ache and her throat is sore; no doubt another potential flu on its way.

The light pitter patter of rain starts, and Linka glances up worriedly. “That does not sound promising…”

“Can’t believe we’re working through Christmas,” Gi says glumly.

“Did you have any plans?”

“Not really,” Gi sighs. “My parents are away again, anyway. Six-month research contract.”

“They must be happy to receive funding.”

“Yeah, I suppose…”

“How long has it been since you have seen them?”

“About six months… which was about normal even when I _was_ living at home.” She chuckles. “Nothing out of the ordinary, there.”

“What are they like?” Linka asks. “I have yet to meet them.”

Gi smiles. “My mother wears the pants. She’s very career driven, but very affectionate... when she’s around. My father is big softie. He’s hopeless without her.”

“You had a happy childhood, though?”

“Oh, things were great when they were there, definitely… but that’s the point, I guess." Gi sighs, huddling down further, until Linka can only see her brown eyes peeking out from beneath the bedding. "They were rarely there in person, always away on funding expeditions and study grants. It was a lonely way to live, I guess. I’d only ever hear from over a phone or via the letters they used to send me.”

“Really?”

“I was pretty much left to my own devices, stuck with extended family or nannies when they could afford it.”

Linka rolls onto her back, blinking at the rippling canvas above her head, lost in thought. “We were all forced to be independent at a young age, were we not?”

“Being thrown on a deserted island tends to do that to you.”

“No, even before that,” Linka explains, thinking hard. “We were all in situations where our circumference forced our —"

“Circumference?”

“Oh, you know what I mean —”

“Circumstances? I love when you mangle the English language —"

“Well, I did not have the good fortune to be sent to an international boarding school where they taught —”

“Lucky you,” she grumbles. “That place was —"

“But that is my point, Gi,” Linka says patiently. “We were all in situations where our c _ircumstances_ forced our hand. You were left alone for long periods of time. Kwame’s parents died young, as did mine. Wheeler grew up mostly on the streets —”

“I would have picked that option, too,” Gi mutters. “Poor guy hit the genetic lottery with those two.”

“And Ma-Ti —"

“He has a family, though,” Gi muses.

“Yes, but he is able to live off the land, so to speak. Shelter, medicines, clothing, wood crafting. Ma-Ti can do it all… and from a young age.”

“So what are you saying?”

Linka shrugs, huddling down further beneath the blankets as the rain gets heavier outside. “I am saying that maybe we were chosen because of our circumstances? That our weaknesses were indeed strengths, at least in Gaia’s eyes?”

“Who has done a complete one-eighty and disappeared into the cosmos?”

Linka is quiet for a moment, deep in thought. “Maybe we were meant to be doing this alone?”

“We’re survivalists.”

“Mmm,” Linka replies. “It is something to think about.”

“I’m thinking about the nice Christmas meal and some down time we’re still owed.”

“We celebrated,” Linka ventures. “Two nights later…

“— with an all you can eat buffet at that rat-infested hovel,” Gi giggles. “I was too scared to eat anything.”

Linka glances up again at the roof. The supposedly waterproof canvas is starting to sag above them, and she eyes it nervously.

_Don’t leak… don’t leak… don’t leak…_

“Hope we don’t get a leak,” Gi says, echoing her own thoughts, and at that point, the heavens open up and the downpour outside becomes a deluge.

“Oh, terrific,” Gi says tiredly.

The water drips steadily above Linka’s head, and the girls are quick to move either side of the puddle forming between them. It leaks harder and spreads quickly, until Linka feels it soaking through her sleeping bag.

Linka mutters under her breath, shuffling further over.

“Wonderful.”

“Not tonight,” Gi mutters grumpily. Wriggling her way free, she gathers her sleeping bag beneath her arm and crawls on her hands and knees toward the doorway.

“What are you…”

“I’m freezin’.”

Gi reefs the zipper open and drags herself through the narrow opening, disappearing from view.

Gathering her own bedclothes, Linka follows, ducking under the flaps and scrambling to her feet. The cold air and heavy rain hits her.

“Gi!” she hisses, holding her sleeping bag over her head as a makeshift rain break. She treads barefoot through the slush coating the ground, hopping from one foot to the other in pain. “Ah, _der'mo_!”

“Language,” Gi’s voice floats back.

The mountain ranges are steeped in a low fog bank and are quite breathtaking. Illuminated beneath the light of the moon, they would be an impressive sight if it wasn’t so fucking cold.

“Hurry up!” Gi calls from somewhere in front of her, in the general direction of the third domed roof reverberating in the gale. The rain is coming sideways and a rustling sound can be heard. Gi’s shadow crouches down and disappears into one of the tents.

Linka falls to her knees and launches herself inside, zipping it closed behind her. She’s trembling; her fingers numb and her feet having borne the brunt of the elements outside.

“Shove over,” Gi hisses to the bulky mass stirring in the centre. His ring flicks on and he rubs his face blearily.

“What the —" he mutters, his voice thick with sleep. “Whaddya —"

“We’re cold and wet.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh huh.”

“Coulda’ had a girl in here,” Wheeler’s voice laments, moving his outstretched arm painfully as Gi wriggles down beside him.

“Yeah right,” Gi mutters. “Female Sherpa’s around here that desperate for attention?”

Linka hears him chuckle, and she can’t help but smile as she sinks down on the other side of him.

“Jesus, you’re both soaked —"

“Sorry, Yankee,” she whispers, tossing her saturated sleeping bag aside and wriggling down beside him. “Were you asleep?”

“Yep,” he sighs, rearranging the blankets over the top of them and flopping back onto his side. “Uh huh.”

“Fuck you and your enviable sleeping habits,” Gi grumbles. “Bastard.”

“You got a real aggressive streak goin’ on there, Bubbles,” Wheeler mutters, his voice muffled into his pillow.

Gi grunts in response.

“Do you have any socks, Yankee?”

He mumbles something vaguely affirmative before reaching over her for his backpack. Dragging it over, he rifles down deep, tossing random objects aside until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Here ya go, toots,” he sighs, tossing a rolled-up pair into her lap, and she takes them gratefully.

“Thank you.” She pulls them on and settles back down again with a relieved sigh, curling up beside him. “Oh, that is better.”

“Want ‘em back tomorrow,” he says. “Only pair left.”

“Mine are drying —”

“— in our wet tent,” Gi remarks.

Linka winces. “Oh, that is not good —"

Gi snaps her fingers. She sits upright, flinging the blankets aside and crawling toward the entrance again. “Forgot to… get the …outside… something.”

The zipper slides up and the tent flaps rustle in the wind. The zipper slides back down, and Linka hears footsteps gradually retreating, before they are drowned out completely by the wind and the rain.

They wait expectantly, and Linka glances at Wheeler, running a hand through her bed-tousled, dampened hair.

“Subtle.” He looks unsurprised, raising his eyebrows. “She’s not comin’ back, is she?”

“Probably not,” Linka laments. “Do you want me to go?”

“Back to a flooded tent?” he asks, grinning. “Sure. Be my guest, babe.”

“You are such a gentleman.”

“You can talk,” he scoffs. He folds his hands behind his head and winks at her. “You kicked me out of _your_ tent once, remember. Maybe I should return the favour.”

“Where was that?”

“Couple of years ago? Alabama? Atlanta?”

“I think it was Alaska.”

“Ancona? Alexandria?”

“It was Alaska,” she giggles, shoving him playfully. “You crawled inside and made yourself quite at home, as I recall.”

“Yeah, and you kicked me out the next mornin’,” he retorts. “Someone had pulled out the guide ropes and pegs. Walls had come down. You were goin’ off your head, yellin’ —”

“Waking up in an enclosed space with a man’s hand on your _zadnitsa_ tends to do that to you.” 

“Does describing your unmentionables in Russian make it less awkward?”

“Yes it does, _Zho-pa_.”

“You talkin’ dirty to me?”

“No, I am insulting you,” she says. “And I kicked you out the next morning, AFTER spending the night, so it does not count.”

“Semantics.”

“Like I said,” she sighs, rolling onto her side and tucking her knees against her chest. “You made yourself quite at home.”

“I remember you lookin’ at me like I had a third head or somethin’,” he laughs. She feels him settle down behind her, curling his body around hers and tossing the blankets over her. “I got a major talking to from the K-Man about that, let me tell you.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothin’ that concerns you.”

Linka huffs, and he slips an arm around her waist and pulls her toward him, his body warm and his face nestled into the back her neck...

But nothing more.

They listen to the rain fall down around them, quiet and content, and before long, she’s asleep.

* * *

Breathless, she pulls the door to the utility cupboard shut in the nick of time, tripping amidst the brooms and mops, as well as negotiating Ma-Ti’s slumped body at her feet. He’s still clutching his head in pain, and Linka grabs him under the armpits and tries to haul him upright, holding him tightly as heavy footsteps approach.

It’s a completely shitty hiding place, but they were caught red-handed snooping through the development by a couple of heavyweights brandishing weapons, and Ma-Ti bore the brunt of their swift retaliation. They fled into one of the portable offices with the pair close on their heels, and the only option was to duck for cover and hide.

Two figures stalk into the room, and Linka sinks back further, squeezing herself between the broom handles. She’s unable to support Ma-Ti’s weight any longer and lowers him back down gently. Bracing her hands against the walls, she keeps still, frozen in fear.

A shadow passes her field of vision.

“Documentation ready?” a droll voice sounds.

“Fucked if I know?” someone retorts, and Linka catches a glimpse of Bleak’s indominable form. He tosses his keys onto the table and removes his jacket, slinging it over the back of the mahogany chair she and Ma-Ti had scrambled past only moments earlier in an effort to hide themselves. “Ask your dumbass new business partner —”

“Business partner?”

“Yeah,” Bleak says bitterly. “That shit-for-brains spearheadin’ your latest money-makin’ venture —”

“Jealous?” Plunder replies smoothly, throwing him a disdainful look. He grabs his vile crocodile-skin satchel and shoves the strap over his shoulder. “Plenty of action for those who have the balls to —”

“The guy can barely write his own name —”

“Got a vicious streak, though,” Plunder muses. “Handy to have around in an emergency.”

“That big, stupid sack of potatoes is drawing too much attention to us —”

“Us?” Plunder snorts. “There’s no us, Bleak. There never has been. You’re the fucking hired help.”

Linka can practically see the scowl forming on Bleak’s face. His eyes flash for a moment, but he turns and reaches for the coffee brewing in the corner of the cramped kitchenette section, pouring himself some and glowering at Plunder over the top of the steaming mug.

“Got a nose for these things, boss,” Bleak says after a while. “I don’t think the direction you’re goin’ is an altogether good one.”

“And that’s why I live in a mansion and you live in a rented hovel, my friend,” he replies, barely raising an eyebrow. “Can’t let the details get in the way of a decent dollar.”

“The _details_ are enough to question your moral compass,” Bleak mutters, folding his arms across his chest, and Linka suppresses a gasp as Plunder steps back, leaning against the utility door and blocking her view. “Didn’t think I had one, but funnily enough —"

“Don’t start getting a conscience on me, _Argos_ ,” Plunders says, and there’s a hint of menace lacing his words.

“It’s fucking sick.” Bleak sneers. “Couple of the new arrivals herded in were fucking pregnant and beaten to high hell, I heard —"

“That’s just life.”

“That’s just fucked!”

“Kroi takes care of it all. I trust his judgement.”

Linka catches another glimpse of Bleak over Plunder’s shoulder. He regards Plunder with an unmistakable — and unexpected — look of disdain. “There were underage girls in the last bus-load, including the little one he took around the back —

“What do you want, Bleak? An apology?”

“He snapped her fucking neck!”

“You think you’re an angel?” Plunder snorts with derision. “You’ve done worse!”

“I kill for a purpose. I kill for money. He kills for pleasure and a sick sense of gratification —"

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want you to control your muscle-bound sex-crazed muppet of a —"

“That’s none of your concern. I pay you for provided services. I don’t pay you to chuck a tantrum at what constitutes a decent money-making enterprise with a guy who professes a weakness for getting’ a little rough with pretty little blondes —"

“Well, if Kroi’s dick continues falling out of his pants at the rate he’s going, you’re gonna have some serious issues with maintaining your stream of income —”

“I can’t control him after hours. Nothin’ to do with me —"

“It _is_ your business if we have cops breathing down our neck —”

“There’s that ‘we’ again —"

“You have no idea how much attention that’ll end up reigning down on us… and me, for that matter.”

“I have a handle on it. It’s your fucking job to clean up the proverbial issues that arise —"

“I’m not the one runnin’ up arrest warrants in multiple countries for trafficking and solicitation! Control that fucker or —”

“Or what?” Plunder replies coolly.

Linka listens intently, her eyes wide as Plunder pushes himself off the cupboard with a harsh sigh, the door rattling in his wake.

“Get on or get out,” Plunder says threateningly. “It’s your choice.”

“You pay me to tie up loose ends. You pay me to be discreet,” Bleak scowls. “You pay me to keep my ear close to the ground, whilst that dipshit is transporting underage girls, runnin’ a sex shop and beatin’ up his main source of revenue without even trying to hide it.”

“The money’s good,” Plunder sniffs. “Besides, it keep’s Kroi from dwelling on certain failures, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well I don’t think it’s workin’.”

“Got a ditch out the back with her boyfriend’s name written all over it,” Plunder mutters. “Smart-mouthed son of a bitch —”

“Good luck with that,” Bleak muses, sipping his coffee. “Slippery little sucker.”

“That shithead’s days are numbered,” Plunder mutters. “Got another job for you. Got it all set up between a few interested parties —”

“Find someone else.” Bleak replies. “I’m headin’ to Aruba, tomorrow. Two weeks of R and R.”

“Typical,” Plunder grunts. “Your rate of reliability isn’t exactly —”

“We got Planet Pests!” A voice bellows, unseen and out of breath. The door slams open, hitting the wall hard and rebounding. “They’re here with —”

“Find them!” Plunder barks, and Linka watches with a certain amount of pleasure as he quickly gathers the expensive artefacts lying around and shoves them in a draw beneath his desk.

Linka suppresses a smirk, recalling the damage Wheeler did on their last visit. Retreating footsteps can be heard, and she hears Plunder’s voice whining outside… and then all goes quiet.

Linka waits for a few minutes, peering through the louvres and seeing no sign of movement. Pushing the door ajar, she begins to slide her body out through the gap, making it halfway before stopping dead in her tracks.

_Shit._

Bleak is right beside her, leaning casually against the wall, having been biding his time. She stares at him, one foot in and one foot out, considering her options…

She really doesn’t have any.

“Uh…” she utters, clutching the door and jabbing her foot into Ma-Ti’s stomach in an effort to rouse him

“Get any good intel?” Bleak stares back; his eyebrows raised and his arms folded against his chest, enjoying the moment.

“Grave digging and prostitution sound right?”

Bleak rolls his eyes. “All in a days work, apparently.”

They regard one another for a few tense moments; Linka nervous and wary, and Bleak, who seems thoroughly nonplussed at her appearance. He doesn’t seem to be making a move to subdue or overpower her, yet Linka almost wants to get the ball rolling, so to speak.

Why waste time delaying the inevitable.

“What now?”

He shrugs, plucking his moustache, eyeing her with benign interest.

“Going to throw me into a mine with explosives, _Argos_ ,” she says mockingly, stepping out and shoving her wrists out toward him. Her eyes blaze with defiance, feeling emboldened. “Or will you toss me off a roof, or chain me to a steam boiler, or —"

“I’m off the time sheet,” he yawns, reaching for his coffee and taking a sip. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He is not my boyfriend —”

He snorts. ”Yeah right. The way you two make eyes at one another?"

"We do not —"

“Sickening,” he mutters. "Where is he?”

“Why?”

“Boss’ll be lookin’ for him.”

“So?” Linka folds her arms defiantly. “Why would I know where he is every minute of the day?”

“Dunno,” he says. “But I do know that fuckin’ with his head is my new favourite hobby.”

“You need a new hobby,” she huffs, eyeing the pistol slung on Bleak’s hip. She glances back worriedly at Ma-Ti’s still body, lying crumpled and unconscious at the base.

“So,” Bleak says, almost conversationally. “This is awkward.”

“Well, hurry up and get a move on,” she snaps. “I have better things to be doing —"

"Lost your rings again?"

"They were taken —"

"Might wanna start staplin' 'em to your foreheads —"

A loud voice barks from just outside the door, and Bleak’s expression changes in an instant, going from his usual sneer to a look of uncertainty.

He moves with lightning speed, flinging open the cupboard door and shoving Linka back inside, sending her sprawling. She topples over on top of Ma-Ti; her arms flung in all directions in an attempt to break her fall. Her foot barely clears the edge before the door is slammed shut behind her.

“My rifle!” a thickly accented voice hollers, and Linka’s stomach twists in fear.

She sinks back further, terrified as Kroi stalks inside, rounding the desk and heading for something out of sight. The rattle of a door can be heard, as well as the jangle of keys. “Where is it?”

“Thought you’d already left for —"

“My rifle!”

”What?”

”Where my rifle?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Bleak says blandly, leaning against Linka’s utility cupboard door. “Yellin’ at the gun cabinet won’t do nothin’.”

“I put a bullet… a bullet between eyes,” he rages in broken English. “ _Grebanyy ublyudok!_ Teach him manner!”

“Yeah, go for it, Schwarzenegger,” Bleak retorts.

“Where is it!”

“I don’t fucking know,” Bleak snaps. “Start putting your shit away —”

“Where is girl?”

“I don’t. Fucking. Know.” Bleak seethes. “By all means, knock yourself out.”

The cabinet rattles, and Linka cowers in fright; Kroi’s voice dragging up traumatic memories.

They go back and forth, arguing; Bleak’s responses dripping in condescending undertones, and eventually Kroi explodes. Linka jumps, startled as the sound of a fist hitting metal reverberates through the room.

Kroi lets loose with a bunch of foul Russian expletives that she would never repeat, and he turns and stomps out, slamming the door behind him, barking orders to those outside.

Linka is still frozen in place, wedged in at an awkward angle. She can see the back of Bleak’s shirt through the louvres, and his bald head is lowered, as if thinking hard.

“You get one free pass, kid,” Bleak mutters, his voice low and toneless. “Personally, between him and Babs, I doubt you’ll last the year.”

He pushes himself off the door and drops his mug into the small kitchenette sink. He disappears from view, and she remains where she is, still too shocked to move.

“You’re the one that got away. Persistent fucker hasn’t forgotten that.”

She hears the office door close behind him.

* * *

“You look like shit,” Gi remarks, eyeing Kwame’s dishevelled appearance. “I mean, shittier than normal.”

“Gi, we really need to work on your bedside manner,” Kwame remarks.

“No, we don’t.”

“Have you sent yesterday's report through to the —”

“That’s the third time you’ve asked me that today —”

“Well, your tendency to forget the paperwork is —”

“I forgot to send them off once,” she cries, her voice high and cracking. “Lay off!”

Kwame’s irritable, snapping at everyone for next to no reason. Even Linka has been on the receiving end of his bad mood, although she gave him a verbal serve back and evened up the playing field somewhat.

She waits in line patiently, ignoring the bickering pair behind her. Purse in hand, she eyes the Parisian delicatessen counter and the cheeses and cured meats on display. Fresh rolls and baguettes are stacked in baskets on racks behind the counter. Linka’s stomach rumbles, and she realises they hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning.

"Oh, that's convenient," Gi snaps. "I'm always the one who —"

"Gi, I am not having this conversation with you —"

“Why don’t you two wait outside,” Linka says pointedly, aware of the stares they’re receiving, and unsure whether it’s due to their recognisable status these days, or her feuding teammates making a scene.

Kwame leaves the shop, and Gi follows, still arguing, and Linka breathes a sigh of relief.

“They’re getting worse,” Ma-Ti says quietly from his spot behind her, and Linka nods tiredly.

“Baguettes and drinks?” she asks, and Ma-Ti gives her the thumbs up sign.

Stepping forward to the counter, she places their order in remarkably fluent French and hands over a fist full of francs to the elderly woman on the register.

They gather their drinks and retreat to the side to wait for the food, and Ma-Ti gazes at her, looking impressed.

“So, how many languages do you speak now?”

“Two fluently, three passably… “ Linka sips her drink, her eyes narrowed. “Is passably even an English word?”

“I think so.”

“Sometimes, I doubt myself,” she smiles. “Besides, you always manage to get your point across, in whatever culture or country we visit.”

“There is a reason for that.” He taps his ring. “It takes no talent, or intelligence, or working memory.”

Their number is called, and they collect their food in Linka’s reusable hessian bag before heading out onto the street.

Kwame is there, looking annoyed, leaning against a parking meter.

Gi has gone.

“She has already returned to the conference center,” he says, scowling.

They walk quickly on the return journey, aware they’ve already used up a lot of the designated lunch break. The request for everyone to be re-seated by 1:30pm was clear, and they are already cutting it fine.

They increase the pace, raising their lanyards to the security staff manning the entrance. Taking the elevator up to the third floor auditorium, Linka breathes a sigh of relief as they enter, noting that many others are still finding their seats.

Their remaining teammates are already there. Linka squeezes past Gi and drops down beside Wheeler, shoving his baguette playfully at his chest.

“Yum,” he says gleefully, as he always does around food. “Thanks babe.”

“You are welcome,” she replies, handing out the rest of the food. “Did you get my things?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, gesturing toward the backpack stuffed under his chair. “Askin’ for a pack of Kotex in a foreign language was the highlight of my week…”

“Welcome to my world,” she says, patting his leg.

“Chemist asked if I wanted wings,” he says, his mouth already full of food, “Thought she was askin’ if I wanted to fly.”

Linka snorts with laughter. She chokes on her baguette, and the next couple of minutes is devoted to coughing up the offending piece of bread lodged inside her throat, while Wheeler thumps her on the back.

“Bring it up, babe.”

“Oh my god, Wheeler,” she coughs, eyeing his usual poorly-mannered seating position. She shoves his feet aside, and they clatter to the floor loudly.

“Hey!”

“Keep your feet off the seats, you uncultured swine.”

The lights dim, and they eat carefully as the next keynote speaker takes the stage. Linka settles down into her seat, but she’s restless and tired and finding it hard to concentrate.

When the conference concludes and the applause dies down, they file out with the crowd, making their way out of the auditorium. A voice drones over the loudspeaker, and she doesn’t pay attention at first.

It’s not until they’re riding the escalator down that Gi nudges her arm.

“They’re calling you…”

“What?”

“Listen.” Gi points upward as the message repeats. “They’re calling you.”

Linka listens hard, and sure enough, she makes out her name, along with a request that she can’t decipher.

“Is that you?” Kwame asks, leaning over them. “What are they asking?”

“I speak French better than I comprehend it,” she says, bewildered. “I don’t… _le vestiaire?”_

“What’s that?” Wheeler asks as they reach the bottom and step aside, away from the steady stream of foot traffic exiting the building. “Maybe you’ve left something behind?”

“ _Excusez-moi_ ,” she asks, grabbing hold of an older gentleman bustling past with a thick plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. “ _Le vestiaire_?”

He points in the direction of the ticket sale counters, and they wander in that direction, away from the crowd, noting the sign hanging from the roof with symbols and accompanying words.

“Cloakroom,” she says, finally understanding. “They are calling me to the cloakroom.”

They approach the counter and a man in fancy clothes and a rounded, posh hat greets them. Linka gives her name and shows her identification, and he nods, disappearing into the back room. He returns with a large box and hands it over, speaking in thick French.

The box is huge and rectangular, wrapped in ribbon and bearing a pretty tag with the details of the shop it’s come from.

“Florist?” Gi asks, peering at it with interest as Linka starts unwrapping the bows. “Must be flowers.”

“Who the hell would be sendin’ you flowers,” Wheeler asks, scratching his head. “And why here?”

“He said something about a delivery,” she says, confused, removing the lid and peering inside. “I have no id….”

The words die on her lips.

Her face pales and her mouth drops open at the sight inside; blackened, dead and rotting stems. Rose heads have been tossed haphazardly into the box, smashed and wilted, no longer red, but a rusted and shrivelled maroon color. There’s something else, too, a dead bird, barely a fledgling, impaled within the thorns.

She clutches the box tighter, her eyes welling up as she gazes at Kwame beseechingly.

“Jesus,” Wheeler breathes. “What the —"

Conversation explodes around her.

“How the hell did they know where we —"

“Do you think it was Blight?”

“She’d have access to itineraries. We were down as guests. MAL could easily have accessed the —”

“There are contact details on the card —”

“Yeah, but it’s probably just the box she’s used… surely a company in their right mind wouldn’t actually prepare and deliver —”

“Maybe the cloakroom guy signed for the delivery. Might be able to track where —”

Gi returns to the cloakroom with Ma-Ti, grabbing the attendant’s attention and demanding details, while Kwame takes the box from Linka’s shaking hands. He disappears with the contents while Wheeler wraps her up in his arms, hugging her tightly.

“Blight’s fuckin’ with you,” Wheeler mutters as she stands stiffly within his embrace. “Don’t lose sleep over —”

“It could be Kroi,” she says, her voice small and muffled against his shirt. She laughs pitifully, nudging her forehead against his chest. “I seem to have a long list of people who have an issue with me.”

“Join the club,” Wheeler laughs, his warm breath tickling her neck. “I can practically see the veins poppin’ outta Plunder’s forehead whenever we’re in the same room.”

“You can control that, though.”

“Short straw, remember?” he sighs. “Someone’s gotta piss him off.”

Her shoulders slump, and she closes her eyes, worriedly. “What if it is Kroi?”

“Kroi wouldn’t know about the birds, babe,” he says. “And I doubt he has the brains or the willpower to pick up a phone and organise somethin’ of this complexity…. Doubt he could even sign his own name, for that matter.”

She nods, hugging him back, comforted for the moment.

“Don’t worry about it, toots. It’s just Batty Babs messin’ with your head.”

“It is gone,” Kwame says, returning, his hands empty of the offending article. “Back to the hotel?”

She nods, stepping away from Wheeler’s warmth and relative safely, shaking herself against the feeling of worry and dread that has infiltrated the otherwise pleasant afternoon.

* * *

“Place is nice,” Gi says slowly, flopping her hand around as if gesturing to something in particular. “Nice.”

Linka sighs in response, her eyes closed and her face slack. She’s already dozing, lying on her back on an old towel with a straw sunhat draped upon her face. The hem of her sundress just skirts her upper thighs, a loose tiered number with a ruffled hem that she’d tossed in by chance — just in case her usual uniform of jeans and a tee shirt weren’t required. It’s the only item of clothing she packed that was suitable for a rare afternoon of fun and socialising.

A stereo is blaring out rock music nearby, and Linka is already regretting the fact she didn’t bring her swimmers. Just about everyone is in the water. There’s at least thirty people on the grounds, all local volunteers who suggested converging here for the night once the job was done.

It sure beats a hotel.

Hidden deep at the end of a long, windy road, they’re on private property; five acres in a scenic location.

“Zach said this place is a summer camp,” Gi breathes, repositioning herself and fanning her face. “They rent it out during the quiet seasons. Company retreats and bachelor weekends.”

“I can see why,” Linka remarks, propping herself up on her elbows. The hat topples aside and she shields her eyes from the sun, taking in the surroundings. “It is beautiful here.”

There are three lodges behind them, each with bunk style accommodation and shared bathroom facilities. Picnic tables are scattered near the shoreline and a variety of kayaks and canoes are being utilised by inebriated young people, splashing about and relaxing in the afternoon sunshine.

The lake shimmers prettily in the sun, and the scent of sunscreen and barbequed meat hangs in the air. There’s a rickety timber jetty stretching into the lake, and a brightly-colored inflatable trampoline and obstacle course bobs along in the water. There’s also an enormous slide with a curved flip at the end, sending the unfortunate rider flying through the air and crashing just as spectacularly.

Linka sits up, wrapping her arms around her legs and watching the busy shoreline, filled with young people her own age, give or take the odd mature aged individual revisiting their youth. She grins, propping her chin on her knees, watching the next person launch themselves skyward. Wheeler is out there somewhere amongst it all, along with Ma-Ti, who is having the time of his life.

Kwame has found a quiet corner with a student studying abroad from Nambia, and they seem to be enjoying one another’s company — enough to have disappeared.

They lounge around for a while, lazy and content, drinking wine and watching the acrobatics on display. They’re onto their second bottle by the time dinner is served, and Linka is feeling well and truly ploughed by the time they lumber toward a table laden with food and condiments.

They fill their plates and return to their little patch of grass. The sun goes down behind the mountains as they finish their burger and salads, talking amongst themselves, still entertained by the antics on the lake.

A pair of polite local men eventually wander over and join them, clad in singlets and board shorts. Linka smiles politely at them as Gi invites them to sit down. They’ve brought more wine, so she accepts the offer to refill her glass, balancing the stem between her thighs as the introductions begin. Gi seems to have taken a shine to one of them, and she sits cosied up beside him as they get to know one another.

A large bonfire has been lit, and Linka finds herself enjoying the evening immensely. She wonders if this is what a proper weekend should resemble. If beer and barbeques and salads are the norm for the average American.

She decides she likes it very much.

Their drinking companions seem like decent, hardworking guys. The man in the red shirt — a truck-driver by day— seems particularly attentive toward her. Linka is polite and effusive to him, but nothing more, her gaze diverting toward the lake every now and then. More shouts and bellows float across the water, and Linka claps a hand to her mouth, giggling as she just makes out Ma-Ti’s flailing figure cartwheeling across the water in the limited light.

Gi wanders off with one of their wine companions, tipsy, holding him around the waist for support, and Linka smiles encouragingly at her as the pair head toward the water. Red-shirt keeps talking, but at some point, he seems to run out of steam, bidding her goodnight and heading toward the alcohol table with his tail set firmly between his legs.

The wine is working its magic. She feels flushed and sleepy, her movements slow and docile. She curls up on her side and dozes for a while, her hand curled against her chest and the odd mosquito drifting close to her ear.

It’s the sound of distant firecrackers that wake her. She sits up, disoriented, and a warm hand settles on the back of her neck, rubbing gently.

“You all right?”

She yawns, blinking sleepily at Wheeler’s solid form seated beside her.

“Tired,” she hums, slumping against him, enjoying the feel of his fingers massaging her neck muscles. “Where did you come from?”

“Brooklyn, ya dope,” he answers smarty, and she swats his thigh tiredly.

The place is eerily quiet. The music is no longer playing, and only the sound of the water lapping against the sand can be heard. Linka wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, feeling a layer of grime and sweat marking her skin. The temperature is still hot and balmy, and she adjusts the bust of her dress, feeling the sweat pooling between her breasts and beneath her bra.

The inflatables are bulky shadows beneath the moonlight; the kayaks tied up safely upon the shore. Apart from a man passed out at a picnic table and a couple cuddling by the dying fire, they’re the only ones out here.

“Where is everyone?” she asks quietly, rubbing her eyes.

“Gone to bed,” he says absently, clutching a bottle of wine in his free hand. He takes a large swig, his throat pulsing twice before handing it over to her.

She takes a long sip, letting the fruity red undertones slide down her throat. “What time is it?”

“One in the mornin’,” he replies, drawing his knees up to his chest. “You were out for the count.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah. Grabbed a cold steak and some limp lettuce,” he remarks, tangling his fingers into the curls at the nape of her neck, the ones that have escaped her loose bun. He nods toward the slide. “You see the air we got out there on those things?”

“I am surprised you did not break your neck.”

“Came close.”

“Ma-Ti looked like he was having a good time.”

“Had to drag him away,” he says wryly. “Too much beer. He’s sleepin’ it off in one of the lodges.”

She tuts quietly. “He’s still technically underage.”

“Meh.” He tugs on the loose tendrils gently, and she tips her head forward, a contented sigh escaping her lips. She sags against him, tucking her feet up and wrapping her arms around her knees.

“Wanna go to bed, toots?”

“Is this what it is like?” she asks softly.

He frowns. “Whaddya mean?”

“All of this,” she sighs, gesturing around them. “A life outside of what we do.”

“Wouldn’t know,” he says truthfully, before considering his words more carefully. “I’d like to think it is,” he adds.

“A normal day,” she sighs. “Dinner parties and holidays. Marriage and babies. Bank loans and a mortgage… a white picket fence.” Linka shrugs, digging her fingers between the blades of grass and scraping patterns in the soil with her fingers. “Do you think a life like that is normal for these people?”

“I think a life is what you make of it,” he says slowly.

“I am tired of being tired,” she remarks, resting the side of her face on her knees.

“Yeah.” He slings an arm across her shoulders, dropping his chin on her shoulder. “Yeah, I hear ya.”

“I am tired of sacrificing my life and my youth and my relationships for a cause that is getting worse, not better.”

“Tired of gettin’ the shit kicked outta us,” he murmurs.

“You are tired. Kwame is tired. Ma-Ti suffers silently, and Gi will not even entertain the thought…” Linka trails off with a sigh, something playing on her mind. “I feel it was selfish of me to make a scene about you wanting to leave the group —”

“Make a scene?” he asks, confused. “You mean Kowloon? You had a grumble. That’s hardly —”

“I would not want my opinion to have swayed you in any way —”

He snorts, taking another swig of wine. “I was just broaching the subject at the time, babe. I’d hardly made a decision —"

“But I understand why you were considering —”

“Doesn’t matter anyway —”

“Yes, it does —” she starts, but he raises his hand to shush her.

“You really think I was gonna return my ring and waltz off into the sunset, knowin’ Andre the fucking Axe Murderer was potentially waitin’ for you around the next dark corner?”

“You don’t owe me anything —”

“I was just wantin’ your opinion. I wanted to know where you stood and if you were thinkin’ along the same lines.”

She shakes her head, remorseful. “I certainly told you what I thought —"

“And I already told you, babe. I’d leave them.” He smiles fondly at her, running the pad of his thumb down her cheek. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

Linka swipes the sweat from her brow, sagging further into him as his fingers knead her sore muscles. She’s sweaty and drunk, and sleepy… and turned on, if she’s honest with herself, her nerve endings screaming with pleasure with every sweep of his hand.

“You don’t date anyone,” she sighs, her voice small and quivery, the alcohol having loosened her tongue to the point of unburdening herself with the questions that have gone unanswered for the longest time.

He stares at her quizzically. “Huh?”

“You used to date women all the time,” she responds, reaching for the wine and taking another long sip, lest her newfound confidence fall by the wayside. “You used to be quite open about it.”

“Probably wouldn’t call it datin’,” he chuckles, running a hand sheepishly through his hair. “I can think of more appropriate terms."

“Oh,” she says solemnly. Clutching the wine tightly, she peers down into the neck of the bottle, one eye squeezed closed. She purses her lips and blows into the opening. “Like what?”

“Rampant casual sex?”

“Fuck and chuck…” she mumbles without thinking.

“What did you say?” Wheeler sputters. His eyes go wide, and he stares at her for the longest time. “You wanna repeat that for my disbelieving ears?”

She blinks again, forcing herself to keep her eyes open. “Gi used to say you had found another girl to fuck… to fuck and chuck.” She glances up, trying to get read on him despite her befuddled thoughts, but he throws his head back and spends the next minute laughing hysterically.

“Are you kiddin’ me?”

“You have not heard of that?” she asks, embarrassed.

“Hell yeah… I’m still recovering from the fact you said _fuck_ ,” he chuckles, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I have NEVER heard you swear before. Ever.”

“I swear in Russian?”

“That doesn’t count!”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounds so sophisticated and classy comin’ outta your mouth.”

“Russian is not sophisticated. It is harsh and how do you say… gutter? Guttural?”

“Nah, it’s not.” He smiles fondly at her, tucking a loose tendril behind her ear. “You could be sayin’ the most vulgar, sadistic things to me, and I’d be just noddin’ my head like an idiot… like _yeah. Uh huh. Okay. Really?”_

“Fuck and chuck,” she muses, slurring her words slightly. “So fitting.”

“You’ve made my day, babe. It’s only taken seven years —”

“You can wait another seven to hear the next one.”

“Remind me to have words with Gi when I see that sly minx next,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Fuck and chuck. Jesus.”

“Well, what would you call it?” she asks. “While we are on the subject —"

“Hit and split? Pump and dump?”

She sucks in a harsh breath. “That is —"

“Screw and shoo? How about smash and dash —”

“Quit while you are ahead, Yankee —"

“Nail it and bail it. Shoot and scoot —”

“They are awful —”

“Won’t mention the one that rhymes with evacuate,” he muses, and she wrinkles her nose at that, taking another swig of wine.

“You are a charming man.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “I don’t hide the fact that I’m a complete asshole.”

“You are not an asshole.” She plucks the grass again, digging her fingers into the soil.

They sit quietly for a while, huddled together. Linka lets out a deep breath, tipping her head against his forearm.

“Did you love any of them?” she asks softly.

He doesn’t answer, just regards her quietly, and she sighs, passing the bottle back to him and staring out at the lake.

“Just curious,” she whispers, closing her eyes again as he massages the back of her neck, her head lolling about with the movement of his hand.

“No,” he answers, watching her carefully. “No, I didn’t love any of them.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, taking another sip of the wine. “Love wasn’t somethin’ I was looking’ for.”

She nods, understanding more from that statement than he probably realises. “You just… you just took what you wanted —”

“— and I got what I needed.” He shrugs. “It’s just sex after all, between two consenting adults.”

He doesn’t sugar coat it, or make excuses, and she appreciates the honest candour.

“Did you get to know any of them?”

“Not really,” he shrugs. “I didn’t give ‘em much in return... aside from the obvious.”

“What do you mean… you didn’t give them much?”

“I dunno…” He sits, resting his arms on his knees, considering her question. “I guess I wasn’t interested in making a connection. They didn’t know who I was. I told them little about myself. I could have been an Assets Manager from Long Island, for all they knew.”

“So they did not know you?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Just easier.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t really wanna let ‘em in, I suppose.”

“But you don’t… you haven’t _dated_ anyone for a while _.._.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” she utters.

He doesn’t answer, only stares back at her.

She rubs the sheen of sweat covering her chest, her fingers slowing to trace the swell of her cleavage. Dipping between her breasts for the briefest of moments, his eyes follow her movements with an almost cunning intensity.

“Come swimmin’ with me,” he asks suddenly, his voice low and distant, and before she has the chance to reply, he’s taking her hands and pulling her to her feet, walking backward and tugging her toward the water.

She’s pulled from her revelry, leaving the grass and already feeling the wet sand beneath her toes, and a nervous jolt runs through her. “Yankee, it is too late —"

“Nah, c’mon,” he insists. “It’ll be fun.”

“I did not bring my swimmers,” she sighs, half-heartedly resisting his attempts to draw her further forward. The water is already lapping at her ankles as she splashes through the tide, the breeze ruffling her dress. Wobbly on her feet, the alcohol pulses through her veins, making her feel light-headed and dizzy.

“C’mon,” he says, breaking out into an affable smile, and she can’t help smiling back.

“I don’t know…”

“Say yes! Everyone else says no!””

“I do not have any other clothes —”

“So skinny dip!”

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes. “Oh _da_ , you would love that, wouldn’t you —"

“You’re wearin’ underwear. Go in that if you’re worried.”

He shrugs, releasing her hands and taking a step back. Her arms fall to her sides, and she watches him strip his shirt off, tossing it onto the edge of a nearby kayak, leaving him clad in his board shorts.

Wheeler watches her expectantly. “You comin’ or not?”

His bare chest and broad shoulders are on display in all their glory, and her mouth goes dry.

She’s seen him like this before. She’s technically seen him in less, clad only in a towel, or glimpsing him in his boxers or briefs before bed, or that one time when he streaked naked between the eighth and ninth hole during a night-time round of golf a few years back.

This is different. This is her, drunk and somewhat aroused, considering getting half-naked with him in a deserted, moon-lit lake.

Wheeler moves closer, barely two feet of distance between them, but she feels every inch, unable to drag her gaze away from his heavily muscled torso, nor his well-defined forearm.

He hooks a finger beneath the front of her dress and tugs it playfully, before running his touch along the thin bra strap beneath.

She lets out a shuddery breath, feeling hot and shaky and _alive_.

“Babe?”

She opens her mouth and closes it; at a loss as to how to respond.

“Suit yourself,” he sighs.

Unwilling to wait, Wheeler heads into the lake. Clearing the sand bank, he wades his way through until he’s waist deep before diving neatly beneath the water, surfacing some distance away and treading water, watching her expectantly.

It takes around five seconds to make a decision.

Tangling her fingers into the hemline of her dress, she pulls it up and over her head, shimmying out of the loose cotton, leaving her clad only in her panties and bra — which are completely mismatched and certainly not intended for anything other than basic functionality.

She sighs, tossing her dress next to Wheeler’s shirt and moving through the water, sucking in a pained breath as she moves deeper; acclimatizing to the chilly temperature.

“I thought you said it was warm,” she calls out to his darkened mass in the distance.

“I said no such thing,” his voice floats back.

Wading out toward him, the sandy bank below her feet suddenly drops off, and she swims further out to meet him.

She hides a smile as he moves toward her, completing a slow breaststroke, never deviating from his path.

Circling her like a shark, she finds herself treading water too, spinning on the spot and keeping a feverish eye trained on him.

“Greek Islands,” he says.

“Hmm?”

Wheeler ducks beneath the water, disappearing from view. He surfaces next to her with a splash. Wiping the water from his face, he raises his eyebrows questioningly. “You mentioned Santorini a few weeks ago… just before Batty Babs rocked your world with a couple of dead duck deliveries.”

“They were herons —” she starts, wincing at the memory, recalling the blood dripping beneath the GeoCruiser floor, and how Kwame and Ma-Ti had scrubbed the area clean and discarded of the carcasses.

“You mentioned Santorini?”

“Yes…”

“Any particular reason?”

“I would very much like to go there… one day.”

“Why Santorini?”

“We have never had the good fortune to go there.”

“I guess the closest we’ve gotten is Athens?”

She nods, unable to touch the bottom now, her legs kicking and her hands swirling through the water, an attempt to keep herself afloat.

“My father had a travel book in his collection. He would show me photos at night, showing me where he would like to take us. I liked the look of Santorini and Mykonos the best.”

“Really?”

She laughs softly. “It was the family joke between Mishka and myself,” she says. “All of Papa’s hopes and dreams. These grand plans of international travel… and yet, in the end, he never left Russia.”

“What about you,” he asks, watching her intently. “What about it piques your interest?”

She smiles gently at him. “It looks beautiful. The Mediterranean ocean from the balcony of your room. Watching the sun set beyond the cliffs and domes of the city. Walls of white with splashes of blue... just like your eyes.”

He bats his eyelids, and she grins, splashing him.

“I do not know,” she ventures. “It looks very peaceful, like a place you could wander, without thought or reason. Drinking coffee in a café on the caldera. A little hotel on the cliff-face. Drinking wine from your swimming pool with such beautiful views. Just to wake up each day and to choose your next adventure…”

He lets out a low whistle. “Nice.”

“Where do you want to go, Yankee?”

“Seen more of the world than I ever thought possible,” he remarks. “I think my idea of heaven is settlin’ in one place, to be honest.”

“I know what you mean,” she sighs. “Oh, I am dizzy —”

“Wanna head back?”

“I will stay,” she sighs. “Do not let me go under.”

“Tempting thought —”

“My death… Local papers… tomorrow,” she says, out of breath.

Wheeler grins. “Intoxicated Russian woman drowns, half naked in algae-effected lake —”

“A good headline.”

“If you prefer fully naked, I’m sure we can work on that —"

“You are so helpful, Yankee.”

“I aim to please —"

“I cannot touch the bottom,” she sputters, having worn herself out and swallowing water. “Can we move back toward —”

Grabbing her around the waist, he pulls her toward him until she’s pressed against his hip. He holds her weight up, moving them both through the water slowly.

“You plannin’ on catchin’ a plane straight to Santorini after all this, or you gonna hold back and sort your life out first?”

Winding her arms around his neck, she lets him pull and drag her gently through the water, enjoying the gentle, fluid movements, and the way his hand is splayed wide against her spine, his thumb rubbing her gently.

“I have accepted a place at Georgetown,” she mumbles tiredly. “I guess it would depend on the timing of when things finished here…”

“You’ll be close to me then, huh?”

“Mmm hmm,” she says sleepily, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He spins her slowly, and she makes a contented noise against his neck. “Where will you go?”

“Dunno.”

“Will you go home?”

“Doubt it,” he says, his tone hard and matter-of fact. “Nothin’ much left for me to go home to, babe,”

“When was the last time you saw your parents?”

“Dropped in about six months ago. We were nearby.”

“And —”

He chuckles without a hint of mirth. “They had the friendly neighborhood loan shark over,” he mutters. “Guessin’ Dad owed money… Really wasn’t a good time, I was told.”

“They did not want to see you?” she asks, incredulous.

“Didn’t even let me in the front door,” he sighs. “It’s a very one-sided relationship.”

“I am so sorry, Yankee,” she whispers.

“What can I say,” he says softly. “They’re a textbook example of a couple who should never have had kids. Came to terms with that a long time ago.”

“I think they raised a nice man, regardless.”

He smiles at that. Reaching beneath her thighs, he lifts her legs and wraps them around his waist. He bobs her up and down, her breathing slow and even against his cheek.

“So where would you go, Yankee?”

“I dunno,” he says. “I just like the idea of stayin’ in one place. I don’t care where that place is,” he clarifies, “honestly, it could be on a beach in Mexico, for all I care. Doesn’t have to be long term. A couple of weeks or a couple of months. Just like the idea of not havin’ my life and my location dictated by other people, ya know?”

“I know.”

He shrugs, sliding his arms around her waist and dipping her low briefly, until they’re submerged up to their chins. “Anyway, I like that idea.”

Linka nods. Her eyelids are already lulling closed, her head tipped forward against his shoulder. They move about for a while, her arms linked loosely around his neck, the water rippling around them, and she’s acutely aware of the way his body is pressed hard against hers, her breasts flattened against his chest.

“I am scared of Kroi,” she whispers eventually.

“Babe, _I’m_ scared of Kroi,” Wheeler answers. “Shit. I’d be more worried if you _weren’t_.”

She shrugs. “He tried to take what he wanted, too.”

“And he got what he needed,” he assures her. “Which was my fucking fist in his face.”

“Those women you used to see,” she says, feeling weepy and overwhelmed all of a sudden, and she doesn’t know why, can’t put it into words. “You said earlier that you gave them nothing…”

“Yeah?”

“What did you mean by that?”

“We knew what it was,” he shrugs. “Wasn’t interested in gettin’ attached. Conversation was never gonna be a priority… or gettin’ to know one another, for that matter.”

“You got what you wanted…”

He shrugs, uncomfortable and ill at ease. “Yeah.”

“Why do you not see them anymore?” she whispers. “I have not seen you with another woman in over a year?”

“Why do you wanna know?” he says, awkward and unsure.

“I am just wondering…”

He sighs, clearly ill at ease. “Better places to be, I suppose,” he says softly. “Time. Increased media attention.” He tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles at her. “Found better people I wanted to spend my days with.”

“You got what you wanted?” she asks, echoing his earlier words, alarmed to feel tears slipping down her cheeks. She wipes them away hurriedly.

“Yeah.”

“You took what you needed.”

“Yeah.” He’s watching her worriedly, now. “Jesus, babe. I can’t change what —"

“Why have you not taken what you wanted from me?”

He lets out a heavy breath and hugs her tighter, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone.

“Jesus, Lin,” he says huskily. He touches her tear stained face. “You’re not ‘fuck and chuck’ material, honey.”

“I am tired of not getting what I want,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to his, sniffling quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m drunk,” she whispers pitifully, tightening her grip around his neck.

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” he says, and she feels his lips curl into a smile.

“I’m tired of being tired,” she whispers, her voice small and tearful.

“I know.”

“I am tired of getting nothing.”

Lowering his head, he presses his mouth against the steady thrum of her pulse.

“Jake,” he eventually mumbles into her damp skin.

“Hmm?”

Smiling gently, he tangles his fingers into the hair at the base of her neck, through the curls swept loosely into the bun.

“That’s my name. Jake.”

She stares at him for a moment, bewildered. Confusion slowly gives way to sheer joy, knowing that he’s kept that little piece of himself locked away for the longest time, hidden it from view… and yet he’s given it to her freely, trusted her with it. He gave them nothing, but he’d give her anything, and she doesn’t even have to ask...

It reaffirms her general suspicion on where they’re going.

He tilts her chin upward, nuzzling her nose, their faces barely an inch apart. Linka allows him to shift and shape her body against his, continuing their slow dance, his hands moving slowly over her. They remain lost in the moment as he lifts and drags her slowly through the water, as if they were the only two people left in the world.

Wading through the depths, he carries her weight, just as he always does.

Just as he always has.

Just as he probably always will.


	11. Twenty-Five (ii)

Tossing items into her already over-laden basket, Linka hurries down the aisle, inspecting the spices and trying to decipher the product’s foreign label, lest she add some unpalatable powdered substance into the meal she’s planning.

They’re already pressed for time, but she’s adamant that a decent, home-cooked meal will lift their spirits. The last few months have consisted of a steady diet of fast food and energy drinks, and Linka is fed up with eating on the run.

It’s eight at night. They’ll be eating even later, but she doesn’t care. Everyone is tired, pissed off and hanging by a thread.

Acting on a hunch, she tosses in what she hopes is paprika, and the small jar slips to the bottom of the basket, wedging itself between wrapped chicken breast and a jar of fresh cream.

She waits patiently for the attendant at the register to ring up the purchases. The young woman looks barely out of her teens, with wisp-thin blonde hair and a pinched, serious face. The girl takes Linka’s cash with a resigned attitude and barely raises a smile, and she watches the employee curiously, noting her dour disposition.

Linka finds herself wondering if this is how her team mates once perceived her.

In the beginning, she wonders if her shyness was misconstrued as being distant and aloof. If her quiet, observant manner was misinterpreted by her teammates, who might have considered her snobbish, or of maintaining a superiority complex.

Gathering the items, she hurries out of the supermarket and high-tails it to their accommodation, vaulting the stairs two at a time until reaching the landing, treading the creaky floorboards of the hovel they’ve rented for the night.

Voices can be heard through the paper-thin walls, and Linka lets out a resigned sigh as she lets herself in, ignoring Kwame and Gi’s usual bickering from their positions on the couch as they unpack the gear from the latest mission and sort the washing.

The tension can be cut with a knife.

She moves past them, into the cramped kitchenette, renewed with a stubborn determination to engage in some normality… at least for an hour or two.

The chicken is sliced into chunks and the mushroom and shallots are finely chopped. There’s an urgency to her actions as she tosses the ingredients into a wholly inadequate pan, but it’s all that has been supplied in tonight’s ramshackle apartment, and she’s washed and scrubbed the dull metal to within an inch of its life.

She glances nervously in Kwame’s direction as the food starts cooking in the broth, as if expecting his phone to ring, or expecting Gaia’s long-absent presence to suddenly appear and halt whatever plans they had made.

Half expecting her dinner plans to crumble into oblivion. That seems to be the way of things, lately.

Linka misses Gaia greatly. She misses her calm, comforting and ethereal presence. She misses the gentle breeze that used to signal her arrival, and the scent of lavender that lingered long after she had departed.

Kwame is perplexed by her apparent disappearance. Gi and Ma-Ti are worried, and Wheeler just feels abandoned… and carries a deep-seated resentment that bubbles away below the surface.

“She’s just left us here to rot,” she remembers him saying last week, stabbing the ground moodily with a six-foot length of PVC pipe, one of many they had laid by hand that day.

She sighs, stirring the chicken and adding white wine to achieve the desired flavor. Pouring a glass for herself, she swallows half the contents, blanching at the crisp, dry taste in an effort to drown out Gi’s voice in the next room.

With no saucepan left to cook the vegetables, Linka rummages around in the kitchen cupboards and finds something half-way suitable. Heating the asparagus and broccolini in a plastic bowl in the microwave will be her best option, no doubt with her refilled wine glass still clutched in her hand.

The voices rise and fall, and she hears footsteps retreating. The door to the apartment closes, and she assumes they’ve headed down to do the washing.

“Thought they’d never leave,” a voice grumbles behind her, and a large pair of hands settle on her waist, squeezing gently. Wheeler peers over her shoulder, eyeing the food cooking. “They’re killing my usual, good-natured vibe.”

“They are stressing me out,” she confides, nudging him aside and washing bowls and knives before placing them on the limited bench space. “I cannot relax when they are around.”

“Put ‘em in a padded room,” he mutters, taking her glass and finishing the wine. “Let ‘em fight their way out.”

“Gi would win.”

“Yeah. I’d put money on her, too,” he laughs, leaning against the bench; the stem of her wineglass balanced between his fingers.

“You can refill that, now,” she laughs, nodding toward the empty glass, and Wheeler pours her another. He hands it to her, and she takes another sip, grimacing again at the acrid aftertaste.

“Ugh.”

“Tastes like shit, toots.”

“It is all I could find,” she says, leaning back against the counter and smiling apologetically. “Believe it or not, quality _sauvignon blanc_ is hard to find in Slovakian corner stores _.”_

He glances into the recently departed living area, which looks like a bomb has hit it, with half-empty bags and travel paraphernalia littering the floor. “Where’s Ma-Ti?”

“Asleep,” she says, rubbing her brow tiredly and smearing something wet across her forehead. She wipes it away hurriedly, self-conscious, and aware as always of the way his gaze never falters from her face. “What do you think Plunder meant today?”

“Meant by what?” he grunts, grabbing Linka under the arms and lifting her until she’s seated on the edge of the bench. Tea and sugar canisters are sent skittering against the splashback, and she quickly rights them, giggling.

“When you were arguing with him…” she says breathlessly as he leans in, propping his elbows either side of her thighs, his cheek warm and close to hers.

“I always argue with him.”

“Yesterday.” Folding her hands primly in her lap, she watches him tracing his finger up and down the side of her jeans, along the seam. “Plunder talked about Blight… about her tests. Her experiments…”

“Doctor douche is at it again —”

“Doctor douche is not engaged in a personal venn diagram against you,” she points out worriedly.

“Vendetta… and stop worryin’. She’s just thowin’ her weight around.”

“But Plunder said —"

“Plunder says a lot of random shit and none of it is particularly worthy of repeating,” he grumbles, parting her knees and stepping between them. He wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder, still a foot taller despite the fact she’s off the floor.

“He talked about Blight having a flax controller or something —"

“ _You just wait, firebug,”_ Wheeler’s voice rumbles deeply, mimicking Plunder’s accent and intonation, and she grins, because the tone is near identical. “ _Babs is workin’ on a damn flux capacitor in the back of her Delorean, and then you’ll truly have your work cut out for ya, ya little pipsqueaks_ —”

“Flux capacitor?”

“It was a ‘Back to the Future’ reference,” he explains. “Marty McFly? The flux capacitor powered the Delorean —"

The blank look she gives him is all the ammunition he needs. She feels him groan against her neck.

“Really, babe?”

Linka scoffs. “I do not live my life according to pop culture and Hollywood movies —”

“It’s ‘Back to the Future!’ A classic!”

“I have never seen it,” she laughs, disentangling herself briefly to lean over and stir the chicken. He refills her glass while she reduces the flame. Settling her arms around his neck, she hugs him back, taking a deep breath in and inhaling the comforting smell of washing detergent on his clothes, and the faint scent of cologne from his skin.

“Jesus, you are so uncultured.”

“Back to the Future?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“It is about time travel, yes?”

Linka is quiet for a moment, thinking about the implications. She leans back, running her forefinger along the collar of his shirt, before hooking underneath the fabric and tugging playfully.

“There was a particle accelerator,” she says slowly.

“A what?”

“Geneva,” she explains, tipping her head to the side as his mouth presses hard against her pulse. “A particle accelerator was stolen and moved, remember? It disappeared…”

“Yeah?”

“Just interesting.” She bites her lip, her mind working a million miles an hour. “Maybe that is what Blight is working on? Why she is hiding?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I do find it curious.”

“Fascinating,” he mumbles into her skin. “How long until dinner?”

“About an hour.”

“Sweet.”

“You are a mess,” she teases, stroking her fingers through his hair in jagged patterns. “You look like a shaggy dog.”

“New fashion trend,” he sighs. “Hot off the runway.”

“Are you going for the ‘homeless chic’ look?”

“Yep.”

“Shall I cut your hair after dinner? We keep making plans to but —”

“Uh huh,” he mumbles. “Kay.”

Linka narrows her eyes. “Are you even listening to a word I am saying?”

“Nope,” he replies, jamming his fingers into her ribs and she shrieks, voraciously ticklish. He pulls her closer; an attempt to hold her steady as she bucks and wrenches away from him, giggling.

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” she mumbles, composing herself. “ _Eediot_.”

Resting her cheek against his chest, Linka slips her arms around his waist, lulled by his warmth and his scent and the steady thump of his heartbeat beside her ear.

They stay that way for a while, only breaking apart — albeit reluctantly — when the door bursts open and Kwame strides in, followed by Gi who seems upset about something. The bags of dirty washing are still in their hands, and Linka opens her mouth to question what happened, but Wheeler beats her to it.

“We’re leavin’ again, aren’t we?” he says quietly, his eyes following Kwame’s methodical re-packing.

“We have a credible tip,” Kwame says, gathering the bags and equipment. “We are on a strict time limit. Five minutes, people.”

“Where?”

“Tijuana,” Gi answers, throwing Wheeler a look over her shoulder as she disappears into the bedroom. “Can you wake up Ma-Ti?”

“Shit,” Wheeler mutters under his breath, stepping away from Linka and running a hand through his hair. He looks as disappointed as Linka feels, his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Freakin’ typical.”

Linka’s face falls and she stares back, dejected beyond measure. Resigned to the fact that the meal isn’t even half-way ready, she pushes herself of the bench and turns the heat off the cooktop, feeling a lump forming in the back of her throat.

Grabbing the spatula, she scrapes the contents of tonight’s dinner into the trash bin. The cream broth and undercooked chicken drip sluggishly down the trash bag, lost along with the hope of a mundane night of normality, and the very best of intentions.

* * *

The girls’ step into the alley.

It's crowded with people — vendor carts are lining both sides of the sidewalk and shanty-type stores are housed within the buildings behind them. There's not a lot of room to walk. Motorbikes are also passing back and forth at regular intervals, making the street difficult to negotiate.

Linka passes her way through, shoulder to shoulder with shoppers. Kwame and Wheeler are no longer in sight, and Ma-Ti is somewhere behind them. Linka slows, coming to a sudden stop and waiting for the flow of pedestrian traffic to start moving again.

The sound of acoustic music can be heard, perhaps street performers somewhere in front of them. Guitars and clapping. She rises to her tiptoes, craning her neck to see over the crowd and catching a glimpse of the band. The back of Kwame's head is just visible, bobbing along in front and she lowers back down again.

Another motorbike. It slowly weaves its way through the throng and disappears ahead. She wraps her arms around her bag again, hearing the engine rev and sputter. It idles somewhere nearby.

A loud crack sounds, and she flinches at the noise. The crowd halts again — suddenly on edge, wary. People are whispering and looking around in confusion. Like deer in the headlights.

Something isn't right.

A scream issues from somewhere ahead and a second crack reverberates, louder this time and it's at this point that all hell breaks loose.

The sedate crowd suddenly turn rabid.

Linka shrieks as she's knocked to the ground; flailing limbs and panicked people running in all directions. More screams and the sound of a motorbike engine firing up again.

She looks around wildly, trying to raise herself to her knees, hearing Gi screaming her name and Ma-Ti in her head, pleading with her to stay down. To stay away.

The bike is louder now, zooming back past with two passengers and people are diving for cover in an attempt to get away from it. She winces as someone treads on her hand and she reefs it towards her, tears springing to her eyes. People are tripping and falling on her in their haste to escape.

Her second attempt to get moving is successful. She scrambles behind a Tamale cart and clutches the wooden wheel, desperate for a glimpse of her friends. Ring outstretched, ready to face danger but unable to distinguish where the danger might be originating from.

She spots Gi straight away — inside one of the stores and she's beckoning to Linka frantically. The crowd is clearing and she chances a peek around her hiding spot.

She can see Kwame on his hands and knees; his face a mask of anguish. He's yelling towards the people still remaining behind. Ma-Ti bolts past her, legs pumping and Linka actually feels the gust of air produced by his sheer momentum. Her attention is redirected — focused upon the figure Ma-Ti is hurtling towards.

It's the sneakers that give it away.

The shoes are untied. They're attached to legs; belonging to a body that lies barely moving on the cobblestone road. She stumbles to her feet. A high-pitched keening can be heard and her brain barely registers the fact that it's coming from her own mouth.

"No, no, no, no," she whispers. She breaks into a run, barely noticing Gi following close behind her. "Oh God, no —"

"What happened?" Gi cries. "Is he breathing?"

"Two bullets," Kwame says. He's hunched over; hands pressing hard against Wheeler's chest. Blood is spreading between Kwame's outstretched fingers and a light sheen of sweat has broken out on his forehead, but he makes no move to wipe it free.

Linka skids to her knees, positioning herself at Wheeler's head. She reaches out with shaking hands, supporting his neck with one hand and checking his pulse with the other.

"Yankee, can you hear me?"

His eyelids are fluttering — he appears semi-conscious, fingers clenching and unclenching but not at all responsive to her attempts to communicate with him. She lowers her ear to his mouth. His breathing is labored and there's a rattle in his lungs.

"Yankee? " she whispers, dashing tears away. "Oh God, don't —"

"I need help," Kwame grunts, and Ma-Ti moves immediately to help stem the blood. "Pressure here."

"Gi, you need to —" Ma-Ti starts, but she's already gone, sprinting into the crowd that's started to gather now that the gunman has vanished. There's a hint of panic rising from Ma-Ti's usual calm exterior. "He's losing a lot of blood, Kwame."

"Have you beamed for help?"

"I've put the call out for someone with medical training," Ma-Ti says breathlessly, leaning his body weight forward; readjusting his hands and pressing tighter against Wheeler's chest. "I do not know —"

Linka takes a shuddering breath; oblivious to the fat tears dropping off her nose and eyelashes. She cradles his head in her hands, tilting his chin in an effort to keep his airway clear. She presses her mouth against his clammy brow.

"Oh God, wake up, Yankee. Do not leave me."

* * *

The helicopter lands on the tarmac with a slight jolt. The vehicle powers down, and she holds his limp hand within hers, stroking her thumb over his knuckles as the medical staff bustle around him, grabbing charts and IV bags, readying their patient for the short walk to the emergency department.

The door is wrenched open from the outside and she feels the humidity; the harsh Florida afternoon sun ever present. Hospital staff are there to meet them, dressed in scrubs and shapeless, navy blue cotton uniforms.

They slide Wheeler’s stretcher onto a waiting trolley, and the staff steer his unconscious body away, heading for a non-descript back entrance of a massive building. She hurries to catch up to them; the medi-vac nurses handing over their charts and the details to the new staff.

Before long, they’re negotiating long corridors. Doctors appear out of nowhere, ripping plastic packaging open, and a nurse hurries alongside Wheeler, a small slip of a woman about Linka’s age. She squeezes the resuscitator bag every couple of seconds, supplying air to his intubated lungs.

Blood-stained towels lie discarded by Wheeler’s feet, and his hand dangles limply off the side of the trolley.

It’s the last thing she sees before staggering to a stop. He disappears behind swinging double doors that lock behind them, leaving her standing alone and bereft in the middle of the corridor.

He’s gone from her view, and she stifles a sob, wringing her hands in despair.

* * *

Ushered into a small waiting room, Linka paces restlessly, biding her time. She has no idea where the others are, or how long they’ll be.

It’s been an hour and a half, and Linka has heard nothing from the surgical department. She’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

There’s a light panel above her head, blinking on and off. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand for the umpteenth time and gazes up at it, anything to distract herself from the images in her head, and the gunshots still ringing in her ears, and the anxiety fogging her mind.

“Are you a wife or partner?” she’s asked by a hawk-eyed ward nurse passing by, checking on her right to be there. “Immediate family?”

She nods numbly, because it seems easier than explaining the truth… that she’s the girl who desperately wants to be the girlfriend, but they’re both too stubborn or stupid or downright scared to take the next step.

Girlfriend

The word fits so well on her tongue. She takes a deep breath, slumping down in her chair, bereft and alone.

Because finally, after so many years, there’s that voice in her head, the one saying that she adores this man, capable of marrying him young and bearing his two point four children. She’s be proud to keep a neat and tidy home — while maintaining a career of her own — and to cater to his every whim, knowing he would readily return the favor.

She’s found an amazing man, one who makes her heart race and her cheeks flush with nerves when he’s around. A man who causes her knees to wobble with desire; a man who drags her, kicking and screaming from the self-imposed comfort zone she’s barricaded herself into… the comfort zone she’s left behind in ruins.

And yet, here they are.

The worry returns, the voice in her head, the one who whispers so convincingly in her ear. The voice that tells her he’s already gone…

He’s lost too much blood, or the bullets have punctured vital organs, or his heart has stopped on the operating table, mid surgery.

And so the cycle of grief starts again.

A feeling of dread washes over her, because of course this would happen. Of course, it’s all too perfect.

Of course, he’s going to be yet another loss to contend with.

Another brass plaque to keep clean, more offerings to leave. Another makeshift memorial to maintain, a shrine to preserve.

Another piece of her heart, stolen away before it really had time to mend from the last cycle of trauma.

Reaching for her bag, she rifles around until she finds her phone. Thumbing the screen, numerous missed calls from Kwame and Gi flash onto the display. She wipes her eyes and dials a number she knows by heart, staring vacantly at the wall opposite as the long-distance call finally connects.

Tucking her feet underneath her, she curls up on the rigid plastic seating. The phone rings three times before it is answered, and her brother’s voice is on the other end, thick and heavy with sleep.

“Linka?” Mishka mumbles. “Uh… what time is… What is it? Are you all right?”

She bursts into tears.

* * *

“He asleep again?” Gi asks, dropping wearily into the seat opposite her.

They’re seated in the hospital cafeteria downstairs, and there’s a cold cup of tea clutched in Linka’s hands and a half-eaten sandwich that she suspects has been in the display cabinet for longer that the required amount of days.

Linka stares wistfully out the window into the darkened carpark, and Gi has to repeat her question in order to elicit an answer.

She nods, running a hand through her oily, unkept hair, and Gi watches her with sympathetic eyes.

“He was still pretty out of it, today,” Gi says, smiling gently. “Kept calling the head nurse Mrs Doubtfire.”

“I know,” she yawns, stretching her arms above her head in an effort to stay awake.

“Why don’t you head back to the hotel and take a shower?” she says softly, reaching for Linka’s hand and clasping it warmly within her own. “Have a sleep. It’ll make you feel better.”

“ _Da_ ,” she whispers huskily. “I will soon.”

“You okay?”

“No,” she says plainly.

“I know.” Gi sighs, glancing in the direction of a little girl being wheeled into the seating area, clad in a dressing gown and face mask. Her father pushes the wheelchair to a spot by the window, and the harsh light above her head does nothing to soften the tell-tale chemo bald patches on her head.

Linka glances over as well, giving the tired father what she hopes is an encouraging smile. She’s running a little low on positive sentiment at the moment.

“Gave us all quite a fright.”

“Yes.”

Gi bites her lip, watching Linka carefully. She opens her mouth to speak and closes it again, settling back in her seat and drumming her nails on the table lightly, and Linka knows there's something on her mind.

"Just say it," she says.

“I know you don’t like to talk about things,” Gi finally ventures, her voice soft and quiet. “But I think under the current circumstances…” Gi trails off with a sigh. “I’m just worried about you.”

“Worried?”

Gi leans forward, staring her down. “I know.”

“Know what?”

She smiles, squeezing Linka’s hand. “I know you’re in love with him.”

Linka says nothing, stirring her stagnant tea with her free hand, as if considering drinking the beverage that had a skin forming over the top only seconds earlier.

Gi shrugs, letting out a heavy breath and catching her eye. “You two can tap-dance around it all you want. I just felt that maybe this was an opportune time to... you know. Bring it up.”

“Thank you,” she says flatly.

“I know you don’t like talking about this stuff,” she says quickly, raising her hand before Linka can complain. “I know it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t share a lot of yourself, and I can understand why, with everything you’ve been through, but you only need to look at the two of you when you’re together —”

She wipes her eyes and takes a shuddery breath. “We are not together —”

“You know what I mean,” Gi says pointedly. “It’s just pretty damn evident that the sparks have been flyin’ between you two for years. Everyone knows —”

“Who knows?”

“I know,” she says patiently. “Kwame and Ma-Ti know. Your brother knows. The guy who handles our fan mail knows. Half the Fox network and related subsidiaries know. Multiple law enforcement agencies know. Most of the assholes we try to put away know.”

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” she mutters, lowering her head.

“A blind and hearing-impaired troupe of marching band performers would most probably pick up on the sexual tension between the two of you —”

“I get the idea,” she says, dropping her face into her palms, embarrassed.

“I mean, come on,” Gi laughs, ruffling Linka’s hair. “Ma-Ti’s neighboring tribe even picked up on it last year. Remember when one of the elders used twine to bind Wheeler’s fingers to yours —”

She frowns, recalling the way the wrinkled old man had wandered over to them with a length of rope during a tribal ceremony and had looped their hands together, muttering in his native tongue while Wheeler joked about how South American bondage practices were nothing much to write home about.

“They were demonstrating a traditional weaving ceremony —"

“It was a betrothal,” she laughs. “Lin, Ma-Ti cottoned onto it halfway through and didn’t have the heart to stop it. He told me later —"

“What?”

“You guys are already kinda married —"

“They what?” Linka exclaims, mortified. “They did what?”

“May as well consummate it,” she giggles.

“Oh my God,” Linka murmurs. “Why did you not tell me?”

Gi waves her off. “I think you’d be good together,” she says. “I just want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy. I think he’d make you happy.”

Linka nods, swallowing her pride. “When he touches me, I just…” She trails off with a sigh. “I am scared of losing him.”

“Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”

Linka grins, wiping her eyes again and squeezing Gi’s hand. “True.”

“Tennyson,” Gi says solemnly. “Blind as a bat and squandered the family inheritance.”

Linka bursts out laughing, and Gi shrugs, eyeing her with a silly grin.

"He's crazy about you. You guys would make good looking babies."

"Oh my God," she laughs, rubbing her face.

"I'd make a great Aunty. Spoil 'em rotten. Candy and cola when you guys weren't lookin'."

"Stop," she laughs, still red faced. Pushing her murky tea aside, she props her chin in her hands.

“Go shower and get some sleep, Lin.”

She nods, rising and gathering her jacket off the chair. On the way past, she wraps her arms around Gi’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head.

“Thank you, Gi,” she says fiercely.

"For what?"

"For being you."

* * *

The plan was to bring him dinner.

The plan was to order some Hawaiian pizzas and surprise him, smuggling in a couple of sneaky hospital beers if she was lucky enough not to get caught. Clad in a pretty dress that accentuated her bust and waist, her hair pulled back loosely and a pair of killer heels strapped to her feet.

She aimed to make an effort. She aimed to make an impression. A positive one, she hoped, one that would incur a response of jaw-dropping, semi-coherent proportions, followed by that cheeky, high-wattage grin that utterly disarms her every time.

A positive move forward.

The plan was to spend some quality time with him, a conscious effort on her part to act more present instead of cowering in the past — but instead, she’s here yet again, an oft-timed phone-call shattering her plans and hauling her out to Washington for the second time in as many days.

Back in the lion’s den, an overdressed rose amsidst a room full of prickly thorns.

The applause in the room is thunderous.

Linka sits in the chair, her fingers clenched painfully into the armrest, her face reflecting the utter dismay she feels.

A champagne cork pops somewhere nearby, and she buries her head in her hands, utterly devastated at the course of action that has been undertaken tonight, and the implications for the blonde little nobody in the corner, the one all dressed up with nowhere to go.

She doesn’t know what time it is.

Tiredness is a trait she carries like a sword, these days. It’s become part of her genetic makeup. The meeting was called late, and it’s dark outside the meeting room on the fortieth floor, and they’re still celebrating their masterful work and basking in their own general crapulance… and Linka’s just tired and weepy and emotional and frustrated and just _everything_.

She doesn’t remember leaving, but the return commercial flight of the day is cramped and uncomfortable, but she’s too pissed to take any notice. 

She doesn’t remember inputting the GPS coordinates, but she drove three hours to the nearest airport on the way up and knows it will be another three hours back in the rented piece of shit she’s driving, since Ma-Ti has the Geo Cruiser at whatever god-forsaken time it is, and she needs clarity and reassurance.

She needs to see _him_.

The humid Florida weather does little to curb the shaking. Linka's dress is sticking to her skin, sweat breaking out across her face and chest but she barely notices. She blunders through the dimly-lit car park, sniffling quietly.

The streetlights emit an electronic hum, casting shadows across the asphalt. Her dress swishes around her calves, heels clicking in a monotonous manner.

She's in a hurry; arms crossed and her eyes trained on the ground. Relying on her stress-addled brain to get her where she needs to go.

Washington is all but a blur in her mind. Flashes of time. Segments that have played over and over, but the outcome (or consequences) don't improve no matter how many times she replays them.

The boardroom. The faces. The promises, the assurances. Her own pleading and begging — falling on deaf ears, as per usual. Because they supposedly knew better. That smug sense of self-righteousness.

That final key stroke that shattered whatever control she thought she held over the situation.

Rage courses through her and she punches it back, wiping her eyes. Those stiff, suited goons are just nameless, faceless men with no tangible connection to the unstable, obsessive woman who has already pinned everything squarely on Linka's shoulders.

The decision was an easy one. Grabbing her purse and storming from the offices, away from the congratulatory pats on the back. Away from the hand-shaking. Away from the arrogant smirk levelled at her from the chief analyst.

They have a great deal to gain. She has everything to lose.

And now it's done.

She hopes the payload fails spectacularly.

She's supposed to be heading back to the apartment. Back to the four walls. Back to the waiting around by day and the arguments and repetitive discussions centred around their future by night. But the apartment feels empty; devoid of laughter and joy.

They're one person down and it's just not the same without him.

She hurries on, seeking out the one person who always puts things into perspective. Perspective is what she needs. Craving that daily dose of bubbly optimism and positivity now more than ever…

* * *

“You okay?” Gi is awake, sitting upright in bed, the sunrise already cresting through the small window. A book is balanced across her lap. “Where have you been?”

“Out.”

Linka floats through the doorway, dropping her handbag to the floor. It topples over, the contents tumbling out onto the cheap, threadbare carpet, but Linka pays it no mind.

Gi frowns at Linka’s uncharacteristic display of untidiness. “Uh —”

She flops down onto her back beside Gi, resembling a limp starfish, her limbs splayed, and her chest rising and falling slowly. Her eyes lull closed and there’s a dreamy smile on her lips.

Her body still throbs with arousal. She can still feel his mouth hard on hers, and his hands wide and warm on her skin, and his body wedged firmly between her thighs as they grinded up against one another on the hospital bed.

She fans her face, feeling hot and flushed.

“What happened to your hair?” Gi stares at her. “Are you drunk?”

“ _Nyet_.”

Gi looks her over. “Early menopause?”

Linka sighs, waving her hand.

“Where have you been?”

“Called into Washington again.”

“Again?” she says. “Incompetent bunch of fools. What did they want?”

“They uploaded today.. against my wishes.”

“Shit.” Gi’s face falls and she stares hard at Linka. Leaning forward, she tosses her book aside. “Oh shit, Lin… are you serious —"

“Muffin basket,” she says absently, running her finger over the strap of her dress, the same one Wheeler had pulled aside in his pursuit of her soft skin.

“Huh?” Gi stares at her again. “What are you —”

“Wheeler… said he would buy her a muffin basket —”

“Who?”

“Blight.”

“Why? What the hell is wrong with…” she says, trying to fill in the blanks. “Why are you acting all weird —"

“I dropped in to see him,” she sighs, rolling onto her stomach and hugging her pillow tightly.

“Who?”

“Wheeler.”

“You went to see him, tonight?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Realisation dawns on her face. Gi claps her hand against her mouth, delighted. “You made out with him, didn’t you!” she exclaims accusingly, and Linka mumbles something unintelligible into her pillow in response.

“Oh my god, are you serious?”

“Mmm hmm,” she says, smiling, her bare legs bent at the knees and swinging back and forth.

“Details,” Gi says gleefully, crawling over on her hands and knees and jumping on top of her, causing Linka to expel a soft huff into the mattress. “Tell me everything!”

And she does.

* * *

“What are you doing with all the flowers?”

“I’ve donated them,” Wheeler says, pulling his shoes on. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a moment, clutching the bed post for support.

“Don’t fall, old man,” Ma-Ti says, watching Wheeler bend down gingerly to pack his bag. Ma-Ti takes over, and Wheeler straightens, stretching his back and glancing out at the blue sky beyond the window. After so many days, he’s finally being discharged, and it’s the happiest he’s looked in… well, since their little rendezvous.

Linka hovers in the back corner, recognising the nurse from the night shift several days ago, the one who had walked in on them. She turns a deep shade of scarlet as the older woman gives her a knowing smile while signing of on the paperwork.

“Don’t forget my phone charger,” Wheeler says, reaching to grab the bag from Ma-Ti’s hands. “I…ow —"

“Just go easy,” Kwame says. “This time two weeks ago, you were —”

“On a fast train to the bullet express?”

“Did they let you keep them?” Gi asks. “Would have been a pretty cool souvenir?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t really give me the option. Woulda been nice to return them to their owner, though…”

“Via a long-range rifle, I am sure,” Ma-Ti says knowingly. “I do not usually condone such things, but under the circumstances —"

“Stop lifting things, Wheeler!” Kwame argues. Frustrated, he snatches the bag out of Wheeler’s grasp. “You will rip open the sutures —"

“I’m not an invalid,” he grumbles, but he’s wincing in pain and already breathless. The staff bustle around him, stripping the bed and removing the pillows, readying the room for the next patient. “Guess they can’t wait to get rid of me.”

“How do you feel?” Linka asks, and he meets her eyes.

“Feel like I’ve undergone a religious experience.”

She stares back, confused. “How so?”

He points to the crisp white bandage below his collarbone. “I’m holey, babe.”

Linka chuckles, and Gi groans. “I see your preference for bad jokes wasn’t effected by your death-defying experience.”

“Oh, I’ve got all new, old bad jokes, honey.”

“Changed man?” Gi eyes him with derision. “Does this mean you’re gonna start picking your crap off the floor?”

“Not a chance,” he says flatly, wincing in pain as they leave the confines of the room, spilling out into the corridor and leaving the ward. “You think it was Bleak who pulled the trigger?”

“Bleak has not come up on our radar for quite some time. I am not sure.”

“Bleak would probably have been a better shot,” Linka says quietly. “But then, we have had many close calls over the years.”

“Stabbing.” Kwame touches his face self-consciously. He glances at Gi. “Drowning.”

“Suffocating.”

“Greedly sat on me, once,” Wheeler pipes up. “I’d take getting’ shot over that any day.”

“Exploding,” Linka chimes in, wrapping an arm around Wheeler’s waist as they head back to the hotel to discuss the next logical step... disbanding the group.

She knows it’s coming.

The others surge ahead, talking amongst themselves, and Linka glances up at the man beside her. He’s quiet and pale, and she’s reminded again of how close they came to losing him.

A thought occurs to her.

“Have your parents been in contact?”

He shakes his head, his jaw set and his eyes on the sidewalk ahead, and she sighs, annoyed and frustrated on his behalf.

“I am sorry, Yankee,” she breathes, cuddling into him. “You do not deserve that.”

“Nothin’ that a decent hamburger won’t fix,” he says, before winking at her knowingly. “Amongst other things…”

They turn the corner and enter the hotel, yet the smile drops from her face immediately upon entering. She stares ahead, frozen and slack jawed at the assortment of suited men standing in the foyer, each with matching sombre expressions.

“What the hell…” Wheeler falters, instinctively pulling her closer toward him, and Kwame and the others glance back, the confusion and concern written all over their faces.

“Miss Volkova?”

“Yes,” she utters, feeling Wheeler’s arm tighten around her in a possessive, almost vice-like grip.

An older man steps forward. He’s well dressed and is clutching a thick satchel to his chest. “We need to talk.”

“What —”

“Not here. We need you all to collect your possessions and come with us now, please.”

They check the necessary identification and follow them upstairs, and she glances at Ma-Ti every now and then, seeking reassurance or some semblance of explanation, but his face betrays nothing.

She knows that this can’t be good. She knows why they’re here.

Instinctively, Linka also knows that leaving the group will no longer be on her own terms, and she's slammed by a cold wave of fear, knowing that the very best of intentions have once again slipped from the reach of her outstretched, grasping fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part One.
> 
> POV will change from next chapter.


	12. Payload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for explicit sexual themes.

“If we’d let things go any longer, it would have been everyone’s mess,” the agent shouts. “The virus did what it was designed to do. As far as we’re concerned, the operation was a success —”

“And MAL has short circuited, and that psychotic bitch wants Linka’s head on a chopping block!” Wheeler shouts back.

“Of course, there was going to be some unexpected fallout —"

“Unexpected? We saw this happenin’ from a mile away!”

“You do not even know the long-term implications of what you have done!” Kwame is furious; his fists balled up at his sides and the tendons standing out in his neck. “You just blundered ahead and —”

“There was no blundering of any sort —"

“You had both Linka and independent advisors warning you against this course of action —”

“You’ve ruined her god-damn life!" Wheeler lunges forward and stares the smaller man down with a barely restrained sense of contempt. “Absolutely pathetic —"

“You mentioned a contract?” Kwame interrupts, pulling Wheeler back roughly. “What has Blight done? How did this —”

“Blight’s contacted a middleman. Your friend’s personal details, identification and recent movements have been collated and passed on from there to several interested parties.”

Wheeler’s mouth drops open. “Fuck—"

“How do you know this?” Kwame seethes. “What proof —"

“We have evidence via numerous emails that were sent out to numerous contacts. We’ve tracked the contents and investigated the electronic trail, trying to round up the potential suspects, but we’ve come up with dead ends. We anticipate that they’re already off grid and on the move.”

The blood drains from Wheeler’s face. “Oh, this just keeps getting better —”

“That’s why we need to move her now. We’re sifting through aliases but a few likely suspects have been on our radar before. Some of these guys are professional and VERY good at their jobs —"

One of the men steps forward, opening the satchel and handing over a pile of official-looking documents to into Kwame’s waiting hands. “These are classified, but under the circumstances…”

Kwame sifts through the paperwork, and Wheeler stares at the dozens of print outs; stamped, highlighted and annotated within an inch of their lives. Emails and paper trails. Mugshots, of seedy looking men with tattoos and the same savage, animalistic expressions.

Wheeler feels sick to the stomach as the memory of Linka flashes through his mind; beaten, bleeding and terrified, crushed obscenely beneath Andrei Kroi’s body. Far worse has the potential to await her. She’s a beautiful, intelligent and quiet-natured girl, and the thought of any of these animals getting their hands on her…

“Wheeler?”

Kwame’s worried voice pulls him from his revelry. He blinks, shaking himself, and that’s when he sees the envelope, and the photos Kwame has pulled out and is currently flicking through. Dozens of images of Linka are contained within, captured through a long-range camera lens.

“Jesus, Kwame…”

“This is not good…” Kwame utters, staring at Linka’s figure outside the entrance to a familiar building. “This is —"

“That’s right outside the hospital,” Wheeler says numbly, taking a handful and rifling through them. He holds up a photo of Linka standing on a city street, her usual chai latte in her hands and her ponytail blowing in the breeze. “That would have only been last month.”

“But SAIP went offline a week ago? Why would Blight commission —"

“Blight’s been harassin’ her for a lot longer than that,” Wheeler says. “This has been goin’ on for a while, I reckon.”

“You spoke about a bounty on her head,” Kwame asks worriedly.

“Yes.”

“And?” Kwame waits expectantly, and the agent sighs in defeat.

“Our intelligence indicates that Blight is offering a million dollars for proof of death,” one of the agents says. “Two and a half million on receipt of her body.”

Kwame utters a harsh breath. “Proof of death?”

“Photo or a video,” the agent explains. “But obviously, she has a preference for —“

“You damn bastards,” Wheeler seethes. “You just dropped her right in it, didn’t you?”

“Does Linka know any of this?” Kwame asks, looking just as shocked as Wheeler. “About the specifics of the reward? The details? Or the photos —”

“No, but we —"

“Don’t you dare tell her,” Kwame threatens, his brown eyes flashing angrily. “She does not need to know —”

“That’s not your decision to make. She has every right to —”

Wheeler tosses the images back into the file. “So glad you’ve got her best interests at heart, asshole.”

“Don’t give me that!” Jones snatches the folder out of Kwame’s hands, shoving it back into the satchel again. “We’re just doing our job. National security takes precedence, regardless of —”

“Sacrifice one to save everyone else?” he goads. “How patriotic —”

“You have no idea what our job entails, _boy_ ,” Jones goads in a manner that makes Wheeler’s blood boil. “We have a duty to the American people. This is a matter of —”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Wheeler barks. “The constitutional ‘Three Stooges’ act is gettin’ real tired —”

“We have a responsibility to protect our citizens from acts of domestic and international terrorism —”

“And Russian nationals facing harassment, death threats and murder-for-hire contracts don’t count?”

“We protect and defend from ALL enemies, both foreign and domestic. I’d like to see what you’ve contributed —"

“Have you even read our job description, asshole?”

Wheeler turns away at that point before he does something that will no doubt land him in more hot water. Assaulting a federal officer is the last thing he needs on his CV. A class D felony would be the icing on the cake, topping off a completely fucked-up month. He paces the corridor instead, pissed off and irritable, wincing at the dull throb in his shoulder.

The door to the apartment is to his left and an armed officer stands guard outside. There’s a tacky-looking ship wheel surrounding the peephole; at home amongst the naval-inspired paraphernalia lining the public areas. They passed Annapolis Naval Academy down the road, and he supposes an FBI safe house in such a heavily guarded, militarized area was put in place for a reason.

Jones shoves the satchel into the chest of the man behind him and stalks inside the apartment, and Wheeler follows, holding his arm awkwardly to his side. It’s throbbing badly, although he hasn’t been wearing the provided sling and probably only has himself to blame.

Ma-Ti looks up worriedly as they all file in, and Wheeler glances at Linka’s still figure. She’s sitting slumped on the couch, holding her head in her hands, still in a state of shock. She glances up briefly, and he sees her tear-stained face and red eyes. Gi is seated beside her, rubbing her back.

Kwame starts up again, and soon the room erupts into chaos.

The words ‘witness protection’ are uttered, and his stomach twists in horror.

When Andrei Kroi’s name is thrown into the ring, Wheeler loses the plot completely.

They’re not taking her. Over his dead body.

Kwame is reading the warning signs, enough to subtly intervene. He places a warning hand on Wheeler’s shoulder, stepping in between Wheeler and the FBI agents, as if anticipating a punch-up on the horizon.

And Kwame says it best, in that calm and assertive manner he’s so well known for.

Linka has loose ends to tie up. Family to call. Bags to pack, and a ring to return. The agents finally leave, and Wheeler kicks the door shut, having held off the hounds until morning.

Seven years.

He thought he had more time.

The years have rushed by in the blink of an eye and he has so very little to show for it.

She’ll be whisked away in less that twelve hours, after seven years of taking her for granted. Seven years; wasted on shameless flirting and longing glances. Seven years of finding a quiet contentment in the company of the girl forever beside him, but never _with_ him. Seven years of being intimidated by her intelligence and dazzled by her beauty… yet filling the time in between with women who meant fuck-all to him.

Seven years of assuming he wasn’t good enough… lumbering through life with what he assumed was just a major crush, until the word ‘crush’ no longer fitted the parameters of what he was experiencing. Until he started to figure things out for himself without the need for the requisite forehead slap or kick up the ass from Kwame.

And finally, just as things were finally starting to fall into place, the rug has once again been swept out from under him. The feeling of being shat on from a great height is something he’s used to.

Karma has a habit of biting him on the ass — but then, the same can be said for Linka. It’s yet another thing they have in common, a shared experience of family trauma and poverty, of being forced to fend for themselves and make the most of some pretty shitty circumstances.

It’s one of the reasons he loves her so.

She looks devastated.

Linka’s eyes are wide and unfocused, her skin pallid. She’s quiet and lethargic, almost disconnected from the turmoil going on around her. He falls to his knees, clutching her hands and trying to get through, trying to penetrate the blank expression on her lovely face.

He offers again and again to go with her. He begs, pleads and cajoles her, but she won’t fucking listen to reason. She can’t look at him, her eyes downcast and set firmly on the floor, heavy tears tracking down her cheeks.

It’s like they’re right back at square one again.

She’s regressing, retreating back into herself, reverting to old habits. It’s a defence mechanism, one that he’s worked so hard to undo over the years. It’s been a painstaking process, but she’s always been worth the wait. He can’t imagine Linka walking out of his life tomorrow.

He doesn’t want to head home to meaningless connections and fair-weather friends. He doesn’t want to exist in a world devoid of her smile, or her lilting, soft accent, or those emerald eyes sparkling with warmth, good humor and fierce intelligence.

Waking up and wondering if ‘today is the day’ has kept him going. Tomorrow may give him a definitive answer, and it won’t necessarily be the answer he’s hoping for.

It’s a literal punch to the guts.

He’ll ride or die with her. It’s all or nothing

He needs to get her the hell out of here.

* * *

Gi’s hands are coated up to the wrists in whatever Loreal muck she purchased from down the street, and Linka’s fingers clutch the rim of the basin with an almost arthritic grip.

Her phone buzzes from its spot on the couch. Currently indisposed, Lin’s head is bent awkwardly and her new dark hair trails into the basin, the water running brown.

Kwame moves to answer. He’s quiet for a moment, listening, before beckoning Wheeler over.

He takes the call in the other bedroom and closes the door behind him, already knowing who it is just as Gi and Kwame’s bickering starts up again.

“Hey,” he says wearily.

“What is going on?” Mishka sounds panicked. “Have they taken her? I feel useless over here —”

“First thing in the mornin’,” he says, sinking down onto the edge of the unmade bed. “Undisclosed location. New identity. They’re talkin’ about gettin’ her out of the state. Maybe outta the country.

“Oh god —"

“It’s fucked.”

“She is in danger?”

“It’s a friggin’ mess,” he utters, closing his eyes and rubbing the back of his neck. “Blight’s offering a lot of cash to take her down. Kroi’s one of them… amongst others.”

“ _Radi boga…”_ Mishka’s sharp intake of breath is unmistakable. “You have to go with her —”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “She just keeps holdin’ me off. Pushin’ me away. I’m at a loss —"

“She loves you,” he says, as if that knowledge alone should right all the wrongs. “My sister adores you…”

“I know —”

“She is just frightened —"

“Yeah, I know. She’s diggin’ her heels in. You know how she is —”

“ _Convince_ her, Jake,” he says plainly. “And just for the record, I do not care what part of your anatomy you have to use to —"

“Christ,” he mutters.

“Take care of it,” he orders. “Get her drunk tonight. Get her naked... I don’t care. You cannot let her leave tomorrow on her own.”

“I know.” This conversation was bordering on surreal, and he rubs his forehead tiredly. “Yeah. I’m workin’ on it.”

“The house settlement has two weeks to go.” The phone crackles, and Wheeler hears the rustle of paperwork. “I will transfer the funds to my mother’s account as soon as I am able. It will no doubt take a few days to clear, but —”

“Will Lin have any trouble accessing —”

“She and I are still signatories. She should still have the card and security number.”

“She’ll be under an assumed name by the time we need to withdraw… if we get to that point —”

“I have a friend who works at our local bank. I will ask his advice. We will make it work.”

“Ugh,” he says blearily, because none of it seems real, like a nightmare he has yet to wake up from.

“Ring me before you leave.”

“All right,” he says, glancing in the direction of the wall separating himself and the others, as the argument outside kicks up another notch. “Look. I gotta go —”

“Ring me.”

“I’ll get her to ring ya later.”

Wheeler cuts the call and heads out.

Linka has moved from her position at the basin, now seated in a small metal chair in the girls ensuite bathroom. Her face and hairline are marked by globs of unattractive hair dye, and she stares ahead at the mirror as her hair falls in thick, uneven chunks to the floor.

Gi’s voice wavers. She clutches the scissors tightly, glaring at Kwame, her face a mask of fury. The pair of them are getting downright antagonistic, and Wheeler’s reaching the end of his limit, ready to tell them both to get the fuck out, because he’s over the constant shrieking.

Linka glances up from the chair and finally locks eyes with him, on the verge of tears, and he holds her gaze, as if trying to send her some psychic form of reassurance that everything will be okay… but who the hell is he kidding. This fucked-up freak show shows no sign of abating.

She flinches as the scissors are flung to the floor. Gi launches herself at Kwame, shoving him in anger, and the freak show starts resembling a circus, complete with wild, snarling animals and clowns with painted faces in well-starched suits, holding brightly colored satchels and relocation orders written on rolls of toilet paper, flung gaily around the room.

And the ringleader herself, presiding over all this madness, unseen to their eyes but her presence is felt nonetheless. Blight’s legacy is unfolding. It’s like she’s here, cackling maniacally in her pink spandex suit and cape, and an equally ludicrous top hat hiding the chemical burns that scar her face.

He loathes Blight in that moment, hates that she’s become so embittered and unhinged and mentally unwell, that she exerts such control over their destinies.

Hates that his two friends are at each other’s throats due to the stress, and that Ma-Ti is slumped in the corner with his head lowered and his eyes closed, going to the place he so often retreats to. Hates that Linka is crying now, her tears falling freely and her head in her hands again.

And before he has the chance to intervene, her chair skitters aside. She’s on her feet, running, launching herself out the apartment door and disappearing from sight.

“Linka!” Gi shrieks, her fingers still gripped into Kwame’s shirt. “Lin, come back!”

They’re all frozen in shock, but no one moves. Three pairs of eyes are focused solely on Wheeler.

They stare at him, the air charged with the weight of anticipation… and expectation.

“Wheeler?” Ma-Ti breathes.

But Wheeler’s already gone, vaulting out of the apartment and past the guard already on the radio, reporting god-knows-what to god-knows-who for god-knows why. He heads for the stairs, descending rapidly before hurtling out into the night, already out of breath as the downpour soaks him to the bone.

He glimpses Linka’s distant figure disappearing into the park opposite, and he follows, dodging the traffic and the hazy glare of brake lights in the dark. He catches her up beneath a twisted, ancient elm tree, pulling her into his arms, whispering to her, comforting her as she sobs brokenly.

And before long, he’s kissing her too, his hands moving frantically through her hair as she clings to him, soothing her tears with his lips. He holds her close, her body small and shivering against his chest as they rock together in the pouring rain.

And finally, she slumps, her wrists resting limply around his neck and her breathing deep and even. Burying his face in her throat, he unburdens himself with the truth, admitting what he’s kept buried for far too long.

Namely, those three little words that he hopes will make all the difference.

* * *

He’s still inside her.

Letting out a heavy breath, Wheeler closes his eyes, drowsy and reluctant to move. Every muscle and tendon in his body is screaming right now, like he’s run a triathlon underwater rather than succumbing to a slippery session of frenzied, mind-blowing sex.

The water drips from their bodies and pools on the bathroom floor. There’s a bunched-up wet towel beside his left foot and he kicks it aside with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t withdraw, because she’s warm and wet and tight, and he’s wanting to prolong this moment as long as he can.

Wheeler’s toes prod the far wall, and Linka’s curled fingers skim the base of the toilet bowl. His knees are stinging badly, and he suspects they’re cut to pieces; courtesy of the sharp edges of the cheap, poorly laid tiles beneath them.

The bed — or carpet —would have been a better option, but neither of them were capable of making rational decisions by the time he man-handled her out of the shower, threw her to the floor and pounded her into an oblivion.

Wheeler had it planned out a lot differently in his head. Seven years to consider the semantics of how their first time would go down. How he _hoped_ it would go down.

Tonight’s scenario didn’t even come close — the reality surpassed his expectations by a long shot. He suspects he was too rough though. Having said that, judging by the noises she was making only moments ago, he’s not expecting a formal complaint.

Her thighs are still splayed wide beneath him. He shifts his hips, nudging into her gently, and she turns her face toward his with a sigh, tightening her core muscles around him and squeezing… and his brain turns to fucking mush.

If she keeps that up, he’s gonna get hard again.

He rolls her over until she’s lying on top of him, and they stay that way for a while, lazy and relaxed, and utterly spent. Eventually he wraps her legs around his waist and hauls her upright, relocating them to the bed, because his back is killing him and the tiles are downright cold on his bare ass.

She settles within the crook of his arm, curled into him. He traces her skin with the tips of his fingers, stroking his way up and down her side, before smoothing over the curve of her waist and hip, taking comfort from it.

Her eyes are closed and her face slack and peaceful, a contented smile curling the corners of her lips. They talk for a while, although she’s rambling and cutely incoherent at times, and he revels in this unexpected side effect.

He revels in the fact that after seven long years, they’re finally here.

* * *

“No,” he groans. “Babe, you didn’t —”

“I did,” she admits, tucking her face into his neck. She gives an embarrassed laugh. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Brad?”

“Yes.”

“Bumblin’ ol’ Ranger Brad?”

“I know —”

“The guy was a bona-fide male bimbo —"

“Why do you say that?”

“Absolute peacock!” Wheeler scoffs, rubbing his thumb along her ribs. “The amount of times I caught him preening his feathers —”

“What do you mean, preening?”

“Used to bend over and check his reflection everywhere. Windows, mirrors, car doors —”

“He liked to take care of himself, I suppose.”

“Carried a comb in his pocket,” Wheeler laughs. “Always wore Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, regardless of whatever muck we were trawlin’ through at the time.”

“He took me for a pedicure, once,” she giggles, smoothing a hand over his chest, careful not to dislodge the bandage affixed to his lower collarbone. “On a date. I was expecting him to go and do some shopping and come back later, but he sat down in the chair beside me instead. Picked up a magazine —"

“Aw, geez —”

“The lady working there knew him by name. I realised he had been there before.”

“Yogi Bear,” he mutters. “Knew he was hot for ya, but…” He chuckles, tickling her waist. “We had… I dunno, how many interactions with him?“

“Maybe half a dozen?” she says, before frowning. “I had a few more than that.”

“Used to start or finish every sentence with ‘ _seriously’_. Bugged the hell outta me.”

“He was nice enough.” Linka shrugs, cuddling into him further. “He was a gentleman… even after I broke things off with him.”

“Why’d you stop seein’ him?”

She hesitates at first, running the backs of her fingers down his chest, seeming to think about the question.

“Because he was not you,” she admits, tilting her chin up, and he lowers his head and kisses her softly.

“Good answer,” he says, nuzzling her nose as she beams back at him.

The sound of a key turning diverts their attention, and they both glance toward their closed bedroom door. It’s dark in here, but the television was left on outside, as was the living area light. He hears shuffling footsteps and shadows passing beneath the door, accompanied by low voices.

The others have returned from whatever self-imposed pilgrimage they’d embarked upon.

“What time is it?”

“Bout two in the mornin’,” he answers, lifting and readjusting the quilt around Linka’s shoulders to make her more presentable, just in case Gi bursts through in her usual flamboyant fashion.

She doesn’t.

They wait expectantly, listening for any signs of further movement. The TV eventually flicks off and a moment later, the light outside is extinguished.

All is quiet again, and Wheeler breathes a sigh of relief. He goes back to tracking his fingers across her skin, exploring the soft angles and curves of her body. He takes his time, enjoying the feel of her beneath his fingers, and the way her breath falls soft and warm against his cheek.

“Don’t stop,” she sighs drowsily, her eyes already lulled closed. “I like it.”

They lie quietly, taking it all in. Eventually Wheeler rolls onto his side and wraps her up in his arms, her hair draped like a dark veil around her shoulders, already drying and curling into loose ringlets. He runs his fingers through them, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

“Do you think they will relocate both of us?” she asks after a while, her voice small and quivery against his chest.

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

“All right.”

He bites his lip, hesitant to bring up the next topic of conversation but feeling like one of them has to be the grown-up here. “Uh… I think I’m gonna have to kill the mood somewhat…"

“Why?”

“We just did that without an ounce of protection…” he says, kissing her forehead. “And my two-week hospital stint means I’m downright unprepared if anything else were to… transpire in the next hour or —"

“I am on the pill,” she says softly, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank fuck for that,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna be addin’ an unexpected pregnancy to your long list of worries right now.”

“At the rate I am going lately, it would barely rate a mention,” she says, her fingers flexing against his ribs, then trailing gently up his chest, prodding the edge of the adhesive bandage. “Is your chest okay?”

“More worried about my back at this point, ya bawdy wench.”

She giggles again, glancing up at him. “We need to roll you in bubble wrap.”

“Think I slipped a disc."

“Have you taken your antibiotics?”

“Noooo.”

“Why not?”

“Too busy bangin’ a hot blonde… brunette… Russian… stateless… Christ, whatever the hell you are —"

She chuckles. “Observation has never been your strong point, Yankee.”

“Nothin’ much gets past me. I see everything.”

“Really?”

“I see you,” he smirks, rolling her over onto her back and moving his weight over hers. He kisses her, stroking the hair away from her face while she smiles back at him sleepily.

“What do you see?”

“I _saw_ you, a little while ago, in all your naked, incoherent, post-orgasm glory.”

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” she giggles, flushing even deeper. “What do you want, Yankee? A medal?”

“How ‘bout a scoreboard?” he mumbles, nudging his body between her thighs and threading his fingers through hers. “Bright red, flashing numerals every time I hit the right spot?"

“I doubt you can count past five.”

“Tease,” he murmurs against her mouth. “I’ll start keepin’ a tally.”

“You are at a grand total of one, just for the record,” she sighs, closing her eyes as he kisses his way down her throat.

“One, huh?”

He nuzzles one of her nipples, feeling it harden beneath his warm breath and lips. She arches toward him, and he takes full advantage, slipping his arm beneath her spine and lifting her chest higher.

Her breasts are soft and perfectly formed, and it’s his first proper introduction to them, since the previous time was rushed and chaotic at best.

He lowers his face, exploring the soft mounds with his mouth and tongue, and she falls back against the pillows with a shuddery sigh. Her hands settle either side of his head, guiding him closer, her fingers knotted almost painfully into his hair.

The urgency is gone, and only time remains, but not the lament of time wasted. Rising up, he presses his lips to hers again, their foreheads touching and her fingers stroking his face, proclamations of love passing in the air between kisses. They regard each another quietly, as if truly seeing one another for the first time.

Things get a little hazy after that. He licks and bites at her skin, his hands roaming her body, knowing there is nothing but this. He doesn’t know when primal need starts overtaking care and concern. Can’t pinpoint the moment when they overstep the invisible line drawn in the sand, but when her legs wrap around his waist and the grinding starts, it’s a fair indication.

She’s given so much of herself… without receiving anything in return. He’s guilty of it himself, having taken her friendship and the gradual gains she’s made over the years, yet left her floundering in uncertainty. The events of the last twenty-four hours have taken even more, reducing her to a near-empty shell.

They've taken away her freedom. In a few hours, they will take her friends, her home, her identity and her ability to stay connected with the one remaining family member she has left. The dead ones, too, the ones lying dark and dormant in a dilapidated soviet graveyard, denying her the most basic right to grieve and tend to the resting place of her loved ones. 

The memories of the bushes and brambles will become faded with time, relegated to the past.

But at least he gets to stay firmly within her present.

Always giving and never receiving... but at least he has some control over that outcome, now.

When his hand slips between her thighs and his fingers tease against her, she shudders, and when he starts working his fingers in and out of her slick flesh, her mouth falls open and a look of indescribable pleasure passes over her face.

He distracts himself for a while, touching and stroking her slowly, his eyes never faltering from her face. The knowledge hits home that no one’s ever done this to her — done this for her. Watching her come has become his new favourite pastime. His quiet, restrained and shy girl; now sweating and squirming and whimpering beneath his gently twisting fingers until it all becomes too much. Gasping, she jerks her hips — once, twice, three times before her body quivers and her muscles contract rhythmically against his hand.

Linka slumps against the mattress, limp and spineless, and he flips her over onto her stomach, grabbing her hips and heaving her ass into position, ignoring the sharp pain that results in his collarbone.

He parts her legs and kneels between them, scribing invisible tally marks on the small of her back.

“Two,” he says smugly, and she gives a low moan in response.

He pushes slowly into her, closing his eyes as the sensation envelops him, all hot, hugging warmth. Running his hands up and down her sides, he grips her waist and pulls out slowly, before thrusting again, hard and deep. Linka’s body jolts forward, and she utters another moan, propping her weight up on her forearms in an effort to steady herself.

“We gonna make it three tonight, hon?”

Linka lowers her head, her cheek pressed into the mattress and her fingers knotted into the sheets.

She arches, thrusting back against him, and he takes that as a definitive yes.

* * *

“You look like the walking dead,” Kwame comments drily, looking him up and down.

Wheeler hobbles out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, shirtless and clad only in a damp pair of jeans.

“Ugh,” he mutters, moving past Kwame, who’s sitting upright on the edge of the couch next to Ma-Ti’s sleeping body.

He heads straight for the kitchenette sink and the blister packets of antibiotics and painkillers lying on the benchtop. He pops out more than the required amount and swallows them faster than a crack addict, grimacing as the bitter taste of paracetamol tracks down his throat. He refills his glass twice, gulping the water down, assuming the woman still languishing in bed has drained him of all available bodily fluids.

“Where’s the goon squad?” he rasps, refilling his third glass and polishing that off too.

“I made them wait outside,” Kwame replies, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

Wheeler grunts in response, attempting to reach down and gather his possessions lying strewn all over the place. The bend and stretch movement is harder than it should be.

“Need some help, old man?” Kwame asks, crouching down to help.

“How long have we —”

“I managed to buy us another half hour,” he says, gesturing toward the door and the suitcase standing next to it. “I brought your bag out, by the way.”

Wheeler hobbles over and retrieves a fresh shirt, pulling it on and grimacing as his shoulder complains loudly. He’s starving, his stomach already rumbling, and it occurs to him that they unintentionally skipped dinner last night.

Kwame glances at the closed door. “Is she still asleep?”

“Nah,” he says, limping toward the couch and dropping down beside Ma-Ti’s feet. He pulls clean socks and sneakers on, wincing at the effort. “Nah, she’s awake.”

“I take it things went well?” Kwame asks, unable to hide his curiosity.

“Yeah,” he grunts, struggling with his laces. “As well as can…” He sighs, staring at his damp jeans and noting blood seeping through the left knee. “Aw, shit —"

“Your arms are cut too? What happened?”

“Floor mishap,” he sighs, turning his arm over and inspecting the rest of the damage. His forearms are grazed and raw, and stinging badly. “God damn —"

“Floor mishap?”

“Gonna have to tell the Feds to fire their tiler,” Wheeler mutters. “Guy did a crap job of layin’ ‘em.”

“Tiles?” Kwame looks confused. “Why would the tiles —"

“We got any food?”

Kwame heads toward the fridge, poking around inside and retrieving a piece of fruit. He tosses it to Wheeler. “I did not notice any issues with our bathroom —"

Wheeler rolls his eyes. “Do I need to paint you a picture, man?”

“No, but I —" The penny drops, and Kwame’s eyes widen. “Ohhhhh. Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” he chuckles, embarrassed. “I will leave that right there.”

“Thought you might,” Wheeler chuckles, devouring the apple in three large bites. “Where’d you guys go last night?”

“Bar down the road,” Kwame says, watching Wheeler get painfully to his feet and gather more clothing, stuffing it into his suitcase. “Full of drunken sailors.”

“Gi woulda liked that.”

“Under different circumstances, perhaps…” Kwame trails off, seeming to have something on his mind. “So the two of you… sorted things out?”

“Got the bite marks to prove it,” Wheeler says sheepishly. “Why —"

“I have been thinking,” he says, clasping his fingers in front of him. “Do you remember the restaurant we went to? Somewhere in Tuscany? Maybe Florence? We went there several times —”

“No?”

“It was deep in the countryside. In the middle of nowhere with a fountain and courtyard out the front, and the fairy lights? It was run by a family, from memory. We went there a few times over the years because the girls liked it. They served beers in —”

“In one litre stein glasses,” Wheeler finishes for him. “Yeah, vaguely? Tuscany, I think. Further south, though.”

Kwame nods. “Gi and Linka got drunk.”

“Lin threw up on my shoes,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Not the first time she’s done that.”

“I dare say it won’t be the last time, my friend,” he says, glancing again at Wheeler’s scraped forearms.

“Yeah.”

“Eighteen months,” Kwame says, his voice lowered. “If all is going well… if the heat is off you both and you feel it is safe, I was thinking —”

“We all meet there?”

“Only if it is safe for you. No pressure. If you do not turn up, we will understand why. Once you disappear into the cosmos… Once you both leave, it is not like we can contact you to amend or cancel dinner plans.”

“Twelfth of March,” Wheeler says, checking his watch for today’s date. “So we make it Twelfth of September next year?”

“Seven PM local time?”

“Locked in,” Wheeler says, tapping his head.

Kwame extends his hand, pulling Wheeler forward and embracing him tightly. “I know the circumstances are not ideal, my friend, but I am genuinely thrilled for you.”

“Yeah,” he says huskily, hugging him back. “Thanks, man.”

“We were on the verge of abandoning you both on a deserted island,” he chuckles. “I have never met two people before with such stubborn dispositions —” 

“Got there in the end... with a few bumps and bruises to show for it.”

“Worth it, I am sure.”

“Hell, yeah,” he grins, hugging Kwame again before releasing him and taking a step back, running a hand through his hair. He senses movement and spots Gi, clad in her pyjamas. She knocks on the bedroom door and ducks into the room barefoot, evidently to see Linka.

“She is not going to cope with this,” Kwame says quietly. “She spent most of last night crying.”

“Jesus,” he says tiredly, pinching his nose. “Never should’ve come down to this.”

“I sometimes think we have no choice but to deal with the unfair hand life throws at us,” he says, regarding Wheeler with warm, sympathetic eyes. “And let fate sort out the rest.”

“I subscribe to the ‘shit happens’ mantra, personally.”

“It happens to some more than others,” Kwame smiles. “You and Linka are two prime examples of that.”

Wheeler nods, feeling a lump forming in his throat. It’s uncharacteristic to see Kwame get so personal.

“The two of you are utterly deserving of a good life. It grieves me that I will not get to see you enjoy it —”

“Geez, man,” he says huskily. “I —”

“I don’t trust them,” he says, pointing in the direction of the unseen agents waiting on the other side of the wall. “I don’t trust that they’ll do the right thing by her… by either of you.”

“I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“You are streetwise,” he says. “You always keep an ear to the ground. You have a talent for sniffing out trouble… and causing it, for that matter.” Kwame glances at him worriedly, and Wheeler knows there is so much more he wants to say. “Just… just be careful —"

“This isn’t the way it shoulda ended,” he says softly.

“I know,” Kwame says, embracing him again warmly. “The first sign that something doesn’t seem right, you get her out.”

“Yeah.”

He glances in the direction of the muffled voices outside in the hall. “You had better —"

Wheeler steps away, composing himself. He heads for the front door, cracking his knuckles, steeling himself for the argument about to take place.

“Wish me luck.”


	13. Withdrawn

After an hour of concentrated whining, Wheeler finally succeeds in making them pull into a gas station on the side of the freeway. The tyres crunch along the gravel before coming to a stop in a busy parking bay teeming with people. The two agents accompanying them are annoyed about the detour, but Wheeler really couldn’t give a shit.

“What are you doing?” Linka whispers as the engine cuts out. She glances around in confusion, her face pinched and worried. “Why are we —"

One of the men reefs open the door from the outside, and Linka’s mouth snaps shut. It’s hot and dusty outside the confines of the van, and they cop a face full of grit and sand as they unbuckle the seat belts. “You’ve got five minutes,” the man grunts, beckoning him out. “This is highly irresponsible —"

“Yeah, yeah,” Wheeler mutters, pulling his hoodie over his head.

“She can stay —”

“No, she can’t,” Wheeler retorts, because he’s sure as hell not leaving Linka alone with them.

He shoves a black Nike hat on Linka’s head and takes her hand, pulling her in the direction of the station shop. They keep their heads down, followed by their two ever-present shadows. The automatic doors open, and it takes Wheeler a moment to find what he’s looking for.

The agents loiter around the front doors, watching from a respectful distance, looking totally conspicuous and out of place despite the civilian clothing and attempts at a flippant, casual attitude.

He slings an arm around Linka’s waist while they wait in line. She turns her body inward, resting her cheek against his chest and slipping her arms around him. After three hours of being driven to nowhere in their chauffer-driven, unmarked panel van, her tears have finally dried. She’s quiet and withdrawn, and still traumatised by the sudden departure.

“Do we need cash?” she asks, glancing up at him, and he tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Probably not.”

“Then why —”

“Just in case,” he says, pulling her closer and propping his chin on her shoulder. One of the agents strides past his line of sight, staring him down impatiently, and Wheeler eyes him back with an equal measure of wilful defiance.

“Morons,” he grumbles into her ear, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips.

“Where do you think we are?” she asks.

“Still in D.C. Must be getting closer to Virginia, though,” he whispers back, having noticed more registration plates on the road bearing the state insignia and accompanying text. “Virginia is for lovers, ya know.”

The unimpressed look she gives him in return makes him chuckle.

“Never mind,” he says, eyeing the instant coffee machine. “Damn, I could go for a —”

Linka prods his side gently, nodding toward the cash machine, and he steps up and withdraws the maximum he’s allowed, stuffing the bills into his wallet and making a mental note to find a decent hiding place when they get to wherever the hell they’re going.

“Should I get some money out, too?”

“Hmm?”

“I have around ten thousand saved if it helps?”

Wheeler pauses, debating whether or not to tell her the truth — that somehow, Blight has frozen the assets of both of her bank accounts.

It’s another nugget of information divulged from the agents yesterday; yet another vindictive ploy to limit Linka’s options and make her more helpless and accessible to those who are tracking her.

The proceeds of the house sale will be weeks away from appearing in her mother’s account. He hopes to hell Blight doesn’t know about that one.

For now, Linka is effectively broke.

“Nah,” he assures her, grabbing a packet of strawberry Twizzler sticks and leading her to the register. “Grabbed some out yesterday, too. We’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hold onto it for now.”

She nods, taking his hand as he pays for the candy and leads her back out, followed by their surly guard dogs.

He’ll tell her eventually.

Just not now.

* * *

A pair of US Marshalls and their assistants greet them when they arrive, and they’re a great deal friendlier than the Feds.

Dressed casually in jeans and tan coloured jackets, laminated badges are pinned to their pockets and one of them wears a red cap that belongs on a golf range, not at a new identity meat-packing plant. They explain everything in laymen’s terms, which suits Wheeler down to the ground, since he’s probably dropped twenty IQ points alone in the past month.

The processing will be done here. They won’t know where they’re going yet, but the program will pay for housing. New furnishings will be purchased under the program, and a “salary” will be determined based on the cost of living in the selected area. Social security numbers, driver’s licenses, and birth certificates are underway and should arrive within the next week or so.

They’ll have six months to become self-sufficient, find a job... then, for the most part, they’ll be on their own.

He’s learnt more from these guys in one hour than the bumbling FBI have managed in all this time. Having said that, it doesn’t make the process any easier.

They start out with six staff when they first arrive, crammed into the room and taking photographs, collecting details for the official documents coming their way. There’s a tonne of paperwork for two people who supposedly no longer exist.

The six operatives drop down to three by the mid-afternoon, when their identification, passports and cards are tossed into black plastic bags, destined for the shredder. The process is downright intrusive; with the staff going through their belongings for anything deemed identifiable. His wallet, and her purse and handbag are emptied and the contents removed.

Wheeler takes a mental picture of his driver’s licence as it disappears, bidding goodbye to the unflattering photo that he thought he’d be stuck with for the next four and a half years.

Gotta find the positives, he supposes.

He glances at his backpack, thankful that Linka had the foresight to hide away a few items of importance. Three bank cards are hidden within a false bottom, where they’d ripped the stitching apart and created a space before stitching it back together. The cash is tucked inside a pair of rolled up socks, and a small red spiral-bound notebook contains email addresses and phone numbers... just in case.

They have to fight to keep Linka’s computer. A woman in a grey charcoal pencil dress looks at them sternly over her glasses, explaining that it will need to be destroyed by the time their new identities arrive, and Linka’s unimpressed response in Russian needs no interpretation.

Their phones are eventually taken, too, but not before a final phone call to Mishka.

She speaks in rapid Russian, glancing at Wheeler every now and then, then flushing bright red and disappearing into the bedroom. Wheeler assumes the conversation is currently focused on how well he ‘convinced’ her the other night.

He likes to think he put forward a pretty decent argument. He wanders away and leaves them to it.

Three operatives whittle down to two by night-time, and Wheeler finally starts to relax. They’re given a rudimentary meal in a cardboard container just after seven pm; lukewarm chicken and vegetables with lumpy gravy. They’re not hungry, just picking at the meal while watching the television. Linka’s head lies on his shoulder, already dozing, and Wheeler still finds himself craving a decent coffee, which is weird because he really doesn’t drink it that much.

It’s a weird kinda day all round.

By ten pm, they’re finally left alone, with a marshal posted in the hallway, just outside the door. They shower and climb into bed, and she’s wired and highly strung out from the day’s unsettling events.

The reality of the situation seems to hit them. After some quiet cuddles and soothing words, they end up naked and entwined, clinging to one another.

He hits another home run, adding another point to the scoreboard before they settle into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Away from the window, please,” the agent snaps, his phone clutched in his hand.

Wheeler rolls his eyes, heading back to the couch and sinking down beside Linka. She’s curled up beside him and shuffles over, lying her head on his lap, her toes prodding the armrest. Some wretched variation of ‘The Young and the Useless’ is on the box. Maybe ‘Days of our Drivel’.

They’re all pretty interchangeable.

“We need to cut your hair properly,” Wheeler says, inspecting her dark tresses. He runs his fingers through her curls, and she gives a contented sigh in response. “You’re all lopsided.”

“I know,” she sighs, her green eyes fixed on the television and pointedly ignoring the man sitting at the small table behind them. “Why is he here, again?”

“Deputy Dave?” he asks. “Dunno. Shall I ask him?”

“No!” she grumbles quietly, sitting up and tossing her legs over his lap. She curls up into him, her fingers laced through his and her voice low in his ear. “Deputy Dave… Yogi Bear. You have names for everyone, Yankee.”

“Whaddya want me to call him?”

“He called me a Russian Barbie doll,” she says quietly. “You can call him whatever you like.”

“The guy’s a complete fucking douche-canoe,” he mutters. “How about I call him that?”

She giggles, bumping her forehead against his chest and nodding.

He stretches his arm, wincing at the slight pull of the sutures. He’s getting better mobility out of his arm as the days go by. Unfortunately, the painkillers are running out and he’s nearly finished his course of antibiotics. Gaining a new script may prove more challenging without ID or insurance. He makes a mental note to mention that to the Feds in the morning, assuming they have access to the requisite pharmaceuticals.

Speaking of pharmaceuticals, he’s craving caffeine. Absolutely fucking craving it.

A decent hit of expresso with froth, rather than the instant stuff they’ve supplied in little paper sachets. His mouth feels like an ashtray and there’s a headache building behind his eyes. The feeling is intense, and he feels like a junkie suffering withdrawal. Wheeler frowns, rubbing his face, recalling the food court on the ground floor they passed on the way up, accessible through a connecting walkway to the reception.

They won’t even technically have to leave the building.

“You wanna go get a drink, babe?”

“We are not allowed to leave —”

“ _You’re_ technically not allowed to leave,” he corrects her. “Dyin’ for a coffee.”

“They will not let us go —"

“What’s Deputy Dave gonna do? Shoot us?”

She brushes her fingers lightly over his chest. “Knowing your luck…”

“I’m not goin’ without you —”

“You can go.”

He sighs, eyeing Dave as he grabs a magazine and slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The sound of the toilet seat slams down, indicating that he’ll be there for a while.

“Gonna start lickin’ the dry coffee granules —”

“Just go, _moya lyubov',”_ she says, touching his cheek and reassuring him with a gentle smile.

“You sure?” he asks; hesitant to leave, but at the point where he’s ready to chew his own arm off. “I’ll be back before Douchebag Dave even knows I’m gone.”

“There are two guards outside as well,” she yawns, stretching her arms above her head. “I will be fine. Can you get me a —"

“Chai latte,” he finishes, pulling his hoodie over his head and leaving her to the dumb-ass soap opera on the box. “Creature of habit, babe. I won’t go far.”

He kisses her before disentangling himself and getting to his feet, wincing at the usual tug of pain in his shoulder.

He slips out the door, nodding to the men standing guard and hurrying toward the elevator, not wanting to be too long. He heads down to the ground floor, stretching his muscles again and lamenting the fact his back still hasn’t recovered from the vigorous shower incident undertaken two nights ago.

The descending floor numbers light up on the downward journey. Amidst the perfunctory elevator music, he senses the unmistakeable scent of lavender waft past.

An unpleasant chill runs through him.

He goes rigid; watchful and wary, almost expecting Gaia to appear like in times past…

But she’s nowhere to be seen.

The scent fades, replaced by Lysol and the usual stale air.

The door opens. Somewhat spooked, he steps out with his hands shoved into his pockets. Glancing at the reception area, there’s a man sitting in an armchair in the foyer, staring right at him. Thick set and bearded, the man’s eyes follow Wheeler with benign interest.

His hands are heavily tattooed, and he looks out of place amongst the families and young couples wandering around. There’s another man standing by the hotel entrance, and two more to his left, loitering near the reception desk.

The scent of lavender again, and Wheeler glances back uneasily as he passes the corner of the reception desk… and nearly stops dead in his tracks.

And in one, gut-wrenching moment, Wheeler realises their number is well and truly up _._

_Fuck._

Andre Kroi is there, plain as day, leaning casually against the counter and peering at the computer at the counter, scanning through the registered rooms with his fat fingers.

He’s literally ten feet away.

Faltering for a moment, Wheeler recovers himself. Changing direction, he keeps his head down and strolls toward the nearby tourist information rack on the other side of the foyer. He picks up several brochures with trembling fingers and heads back to the elevator, trying to act casual, because if he draws attention to himself, they’re both dead.

Another two men are nearby, located at the other set of lifts. They’re blocking access to the food court, and Wheeler suddenly understands that they’re most likely keeping an eye on the exits until they’re ready to head up, looking out for a shapely blonde… or a somewhat dishevelled brunette, if their information is up to date.

Which it probably is.

There’s a cold sweat breaking out all over his body as he makes his way back to the lifts. Every step feels like lead, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has left to remain calm.

By stupid dumb luck, he manages to catch the elevator as a young family depart the ground floor, and his heart is thumping painfully in his chest as he waits for the doors to close, tucking himself as far into the back corner as he can. It seems like an eternity. The last thing he sees is Kroi arguing with the desk clerk in broken English before the doors ping and the elevator finally moves upward.

He understands, then and there, that someone has sold them out. Someone in the Bureau has betrayed them — perhaps someone with a financial incentive to give up Linka’s whereabouts

The lift can’t go fast enough, and he’s hopping from foot to foot, swearing angrily under his breath, making a mental note of what he needs to grab and where they’re gonna go and how they’re gonna get there.

Because despite the precautions, he’d honestly assumed that Plan B would never need to eventuate, assuming they’d end up getting a permanent, all-expenses paid trip to the middle of Shitsville, Kentucky, or Craptown, Alabama, with superb back stories and red-neck names to go with them. And how one day they were gonna laugh about their adventures and settle into the comforting mediocrity of a decent, unassuming, federally-funded life.

Not this.

He didn’t expect this.

Not really. Despite the ‘what ifs’ and the nagging doubts in the back of his head, he never really considered that this would happen. The chances were so slim, so minuscule…

And yet the karma train has fucked them both over again. Being shat on from a great height is one thing, but the big guy upstairs likes variety, and this time, it’s a grand piano falling from the skies while they’re staggering around aimlessly underneath it.

After an intolerable wait, the doors finally open. Sprinting out onto the fourth floor, Wheeler breaks into a run down to the end of the long hallway, passing the sign-posted fire escape. He files the location away in yet another mental folder, already brimming with enough shit to threaten his short-term cognitive load.

The guards who were there just a moment ago have gone, and that’s enough to raise further alarm bells. The door is slightly ajar when it should be locked, and he realises it’s been left open on purpose, granting easy access for whoever might make their way up.

There’s one fucking bastard remaining inside who is the common denominator in all this, and Wheeler’s hackles rise to murderous levels as he bursts through the door and glances around in a panic, looking for _her_.

Linka’s green eyes peer at him over the top of the sofa, and he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. He makes a beeline for the bedroom, glaring at Deadbeat Dave who is back by the window. The man glances up guiltily and snaps his phone shut, evidently surprised to see Wheeler back so soon.

“Forget the coffees, Yankee?”

He mumbles something in response and grabs what he can find, tossing their combined belongings into their backpacks while thanking his lucky stars that Linka is as tidy and fastidious as she is. Slinging the bags over his shoulder, he hurries out, eyeing Dave angrily. The bastard now blocks their only exit, holding his hands out and trying to placate them.

Trying to keep them there, served up on a platter for Kroi and his cronies. They’ll dispatch Wheeler quickly, but they’ll take their time with Lin.

Lambs to the slaughter, while good ‘ol Dave scores a tidy paycheck and a hasty exit for his efforts before the slaughter and debauchery begin.

Linka is on her feet, confused, and Wheeler drags her toward him, just wanting to get her out before —

And then, a flash of silver… and all hell breaks loose.

* * *

He’s in agony, still bleeding heavily.

They purchase antiseptic and bandages from a corner pharmacy and duck into a public restroom close to the train station. He thanks his lucky stars that it’s not another bullet wound, but the sutures have ripped open and the pain is excruciating. It hurts to breathe, and Wheeler worries that his airways aren’t coping with yet another battering.

The last thing he needs is another collapsed lung.

He winces, sucking in a sharp breath as Linka does her best to fix him up. A shitty light bulb flickers above them, coated with thick dirt. It’s dank and gross in here, crawling with insects, and he’s pretty sure he spotted a used hypodermic needle under the sink on their way in.

Just adds to the general ambiance of the place.

He shuts his eyes against the pain, swaying on the spot before having to lean against the brickwork for support, feeling nauseous. Linka’s head is bowed and she works quickly and carefully. She’s still distraught, wiping tears away every now and then.

Having crash-tackled Deputy Dave to the ground with the grace and professionalism of a pro-footballer, Linka sustained some damage of her own prior to their mad dash for freedom. Her wrist is sprained and there’s a lump forming on the back of her head.

It’s still on his mind. He can’t stop thinking it.

They should be dead.

The odds were against them. They shouldn’t be here, having avoided an unpleasant end by sheer chance and impulse… and fucking coffee.

Popping downstairs for coffee.

Five minutes earlier, and he could have returned to an empty room. Or perhaps he would have walked in on them doing whatever violent misdeed they were planning.

Five minutes later?

His stomach heaves at the very thought of it.

They purchase a cheap cell phone with credit at a seven-eleven. Digging down for the little notebook at the bottom of his suitcase, Wheeler slumps down onto a bus stop seat to rest and makes a couple of phone calls, needing to get things underway.

They grab some food and supplies, and he steps up to another teller machine, wanting to withdraw the last of his cash and end the trail of breadcrumbs here in Virginia before moving on…

And his card is swallowed.

The screen flashes with white letters.

_Please contact your bank._

He stares at the machine in utter dismay. Blight has cut off his funds now, too.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, gripping the teller machine until his knuckles turn white and wondering what else could possibly befall them. “Goddamn it —"

“What now?” Linka asks worriedly. She shifts her bag onto the other shoulder, peering over his shoulder. “What is happening —”

“Karma,” he mutters. “C’mon.”

They hop back on a train, heading a few stops further south on the metro line.

They alight at a particularly seedy district, and it’s pitch black by the time they head out into the night. The hookers are out in force, huddled together and gossiping on the street corners while their pimps keep a watchful eye on them from a distance.

Linka looks completely freaked out. She stays close, supporting him around the waist, and they walk for about an hour until he can’t go on anymore. There’s a hotel over the road, a row of about twenty small rooms in a U shape, with a grimy salmon exterior and crumbling render. The place makes a standard Hotel Six look like the Taj Mahal.

There’s a garish sign out front offering rates by the day or hour. Wheeler knows the owners won’t check ID’s or need credit card imprints upon check-in. The usual clientele will want to avoid such transactions. The reception will remain open all night since the majority of their business occurs long after the sun goes down.

For the moment, it’s the safest and most cost-effective option.

They pay the skinny bald guy at the front desk, and its well after midnight before they lumber along the footpath toward their room, stepping around a woman lying across their path, strung out on drink and drugs.

The room stinks of stale cigarette smoke and dust. The double bed is draped with a stained, grimy coverlet, and Wheeler grimaces at the thought of the bodily fluids that have no doubt been exchanged here, the evidence long congealed within the sheets and mattress.

Dumping their bags, he locks and bolts the door and sinks down onto the floor at the end of the bed, bleary-eyed and weighed down by circumstances that have spiralled beyond their control. Linka drops down beside him, her hand resting on his thigh, and he slings his arm around her shoulders.

Her laptop was left behind in their haste to escape. They probably have a week’s worth of clothes between them and the bare minimum of toiletries. They currently have no further access to cash other than what’s in their wallets, and no identification.

They have nothing and no one. The knowledge weighs heavily on him.

They huddle together, quiet and watchful, and he eventually feels the weight of her head nestle into his neck. She dozes fitfully for a while, her body occasionally jerking, as if plagued by bad dreams. He slumps back against the mattress, pulling her with him, his eyes settled on the cheap digital clock on the small bureau by the door as he counts the minutes and hours that go by.

A police car pulls into the parking lot at 2:37am, and the blue and red lights shine bright through the window for a few minutes. The sirens eventually _whoop whoop_ and the vehicle peels off at high speed.

At around 3am, he repositions Linka until she’s propped against his chest; her head tipped back and her cheek next to his. Wheeler drapes his jacket across her torso before spending the next fifteen minutes running his fingers through her hair — more of an attempt to soothe himself rather than her.

At 4:33am he hears crude Latino voices passing their room, and an argument erupts further down the complex.

Around sunrise, a woman hollers for someone named Mark. She’s ear-piercingly persistent, and her pitiful whining grates on Wheeler even further.

He’s still too wired to sleep, expecting Kroi and his cronies to come bursting through the door at any given moment.

Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a heavy breath, watching the sun rise through the yellowing lace curtains framing the window. For the first time in his life, he has no answers, and no fucking clue what to do or where to go from here.

* * *

“We should be dead.”

“Yeah.”

Wheeler blinks, raising a hand over his face as the sun glares down on them. They’re in a local park, having checked out of the hotel and headed straight to the agreed meeting point.

She rolls onto her side, her cheek resting on her elbow, and her face looks haggard and deathly pale. The dark circles beneath her eyes are unmistakable, and he knows their narrow escape has been on her mind as well.

Survivors guilt is the worst fucking kind of trauma.

“If you hadn’t have left the room, we would never have known —”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, babe,” he says huskily, because truthfully, he spent most of last night trying — and failing — to come to terms with it.

He winces, clutching his collarbone. The pain has been steadily getting worse, but a doctor or hospital remains out of the question.

“What time is he coming?”

“Bout midday,” Wheeler sighs. “Aaron said to meet the guy here by the picnic table. Seth or Simon or someone, I think.”

“Did your friend know it was you when you rung yesterday,” she asks worriedly. “Can any of this be traced —”

“Nah,” Wheeler replies. “He didn’t know it was me. I was just another guy peddlin’ identity papers to illegal immigrants.”

“How much money will we need?”

 _More than we have,_ he worries, but he rests his hand on her thigh and manages a strained smile. “No idea, babe.”

Linka crosses her legs, picking at her pastry, mulling something over. “My bank account has been hacked, hasn’t it?” she asks quietly.

He lets out a heavy breath and squeezes her leg gently. “Yeah.”

“I thought so.” She shrugs, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “This morning was the third time you had talked me out of withdrawing money.”

“Blight suspended your account days ago, hon.”

She purses her lips, looking like she’s on the verge of tears again, but manages to hold herself together. Dropping her face into her hands, she rubs her eyes tiredly. “How much cash do you have?”

“Just over eighteen hundred bucks,” he assures her. “Withdrew what I could before she froze me out, too.”

“So Blight knows you are with me?”

He doesn’t answer.

* * *

They were expecting a skinny looking guy with lank hair and a greasy, pock-marked complexion, but are surprised to see a well-dressed man in his early forties. He strides over and greets them warmly, settling down beside Linka and remarking on the nice weather, which Wheeler hasn’t noticed because he’s still strung out and grossly sleep deprived.

‘Seth’ indulges in some small talk, but soon cuts to the chase, making recommendations on what will work for their particular circumstance… which they’ve blatantly lied about, but who is he to know any differently?

He rattles off documents and prices with expert ease, like he’s a waiter going through the menu specials for the week. The credentials will be genuine — meaning they were stolen from a bona-fide citizen, often those who have passed away or have had their information stolen and traded on the black market.

The cost is three hundred bucks more than they have. Linka’s face falls, and Wheeler haggles him down until they agree on a lower price. It’s still all that they have left, and he hands over the cash reluctantly, knowing they’re being left with nothing but loose change and wondering how the hell they’re gonna survive the coming days.

Then there’s the unpalatable thought that he doesn’t want to consider… that the cash will disappear, and so will good ‘ol buddy Seth.

He passes Wheeler a key with a piece of paper as Linka wipes tears away in frustration, staring at the last of their money clutched in the man’s hands. The stress is getting to her.

“Union station,” Seth explains, counting the notes and placing the thick bundle into his satchel. “A week from today. There’s a set of lockers beside the Avis counter.” He nods toward the key in Wheeler’s hand. “That’ll open locker 431.”

“Right,” Wheeler says, reaching for Linka’s hand as she starts to cry.

“She okay?”

“Rough couple of days,” Wheeler remarks, rubbing his forehead, tired of the amount of obstacles they’re encountering. He squeezes her hand gently, trying to reassure her. “Stop stressin’,” he says quietly. “We’ll sort somethin’ out.”

Seth glances at her quizzically. “Does she speak much English?”

“Not much.”

“You said she was German?” Seth asks as he gets to his feet, dusting imaginary dirt particles from his finely pressed chinos. He looks her over keenly, and Wheeler is on the verge of telling him to take his money and fuck off when the guy crouches down in front of her.

“Can’t stand to see a pretty woman cryin’,” he says, passing a couple of hundred-dollar bills back into Linka’s shaking hands.

Seth saunters off, probably on the way back to his expensive Mercedes and million-dollar mansion and model wife. Open mouthed and gaping, they both watch him disappear around the corner and out of sight.

Wheeler takes a proverbial hat off to this purveyor of black-market trading and identity theft, surprised that a man who benefits from the misery and desperation of others could be capable of such kindness.

* * *

They’re on the move again, reluctant to stay in one place for more than twenty-four hours.

Tonight’s cesspool is worse than the last, a double story set of apartments surrounding a small pool that stinks of algae. They can hear the gentle chug of the pool cleaner from the top floor as they file inside, and this time it’s Wheeler who sleeps, passed out on the bed, and it’s Linka who keeps watch, clutching the base of a lampshade in her clenched fist, ready to strike whoever might come through.

He’s woken several times by high-pitched laughter and foul language, and beer bottles smash outside regularly, and by seven am, they’re both ready to move on again. They spend their days hidden within plain sight, travelling from place to place, frequenting train stations and parks and shopping centres.

Despite their attempts to keep his collarbone clean and sanitary, it’s not looking good. The wound has become infected, and Wheeler is experiencing persistently high temperatures that show no sign of abating.

They buy low cost meals, such as bread and cheese and bottles of water to drink, and they ration the absolute shit out of it. He acquires a taste for chicken-flavored two-minute noodles, but still, Wheeler misses Lin’s cooking. He tells her so, in the throes of a particularly bad fever one night, and she touches his cheek, unable to hide the look of concern on her face.

They spend their nights in cheap accommodation, and the cash starts to dry up.

They’re held up on their way to buy groceries on the afternoon of the third day. A knife is pulled on them in the stairwell of yet another cheap motel, and this time, it’s Linka who fights back again, kneeing the offender in the groin and shoving him backward down the stairs, since Wheeler’s in no condition to maintain his usual tough-guy act.

They gather their shit and spend that night in a park in north DC, huddled together with the homeless and mentally ill in a makeshift tent city. 

The cough starts on the fourth day. His glands are up, jutting out like golf balls, and it’s hard to swallow. The nausea and vomiting start soon after, and the chills are like nothing he’s ever experienced.

They have no choice but to find somewhere to stay while they wait this out. Linka is a nervous wreck, babbling about septa-something-or-rather, but tonight he’s too delirious to even worry about it.

He’s disorientated and aching all over, the chills almost violent in nature. The last lucid thought he has is in front of the bathroom mirror on the fifth morning, while cleaning his teeth.

 _You look like utter shit,_ Wheeler tells himself, blinking at his red cheeks, sunken eyes and the weeks’ worth of stubble covering his face. Leaning against the basin for support, his knees give way beneath him…

And he hits the floor with a crash and knows no more.


	14. Pinpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated for explicit sex and imagined violence.

There’s a common thread to the nightmares that plague his sleep. He’s always restrained, and she’s always screaming, until her voice eventually cracks from the strain.

Until the silence takes over, which is infinitely worse.

He knows then that she’s gone. Her glassy, sightless gaze is always focused upon him in those last moments, before the clock resets and the macabre festivities start all over again

They make him watch.

There’s nothing Wheeler can do. Time after time, Kroi and his acquaintances finds new ways to torment him, to make them both suffer, each interlude more violent and perverse than the last.

Sometimes it ends quickly… but often not.

They break her bones and carve open her skin, the blood oozing freely from her wounds. They beat and choke her until she’s gasping for breath, her limbs jerking and flailing as they snuff the life out of her. Linka’s outstretched fingers reach blindly for him until her body finally goes limp, only for the cycle to repeat in new, awful ways.

They force themselves on her, and in turn, he’s forced to bear witness; bound and struggling and bellowing her name while they take turns holding her down and defiling her body in the most obscene ways imaginable.

It’s a never-ending, gut churning sequence of events. The details change, but the outcome is always the same. She dies alone and in agony merely a few feet away, and he wants nothing more than to die with her during those moments.

The nightmares are a festering sore inside his head. A cancer; malignant and parasitic, an unwanted intruder that he can’t shake.

He tosses and turns and sweats so much the sheets stick to his back and legs. Semi-lucid and delirious, he fights off the persistent hands clutching his head, forcing foul-tasting water down his throat.

When the fever finally breaks, the nightmares begin to subside, too, until only Kroi remains, his lips curled into a twisted grin, and his eyes cold and dangerous. He stands between them, grinning mockingly at Wheeler, and that familiar tug of dread starts in the pit of his stomach.

Kroi turns his back and heads for the bed, where Linka lies, barely conscious. Just when the cycle of death is poised to start up again, another distant voice begins to penetrate down to the deepest depths of his mind. Another voice, lilting and soft and calm, at odds with the shrieking that has started up, a cacophony of spiralling madness that signals the beginning of yet another end.

He begins to separate this version of Linka with another; the one waiting elsewhere. The other one who talks soothingly to him, her fingers stroking his hair and face, holding him close and calling him back.

Calling him home.

Wheeler returns to her willingly.

* * *

Wheeler is in such a deep sleep that he doesn’t hear the high-pitched beep of the truck rumbling past their room. The truck does some tight manoeuvring before coming to a stop. Mechanical gears grind as the metal bars are lowered into position on either side of the dumpster outside.

The contents are lifted and emptied with several loud bangs for good measure, and the grinding resumes again as the container begins the return journey. It drops to the ground, and the noise is louder than a gunshot.

The sound rattles the windows and Wheeler is startled awake, his eyes flying open and heart pounding.

Disorientated, he tries to raise his head, but a soft voice shushes him and pulls him closer. He blinks tiredly, his face nestled against a pair of soft, pillowy breasts. Running her fingers through his damp hair, she whispers to him until he slumps in her arms, his eyes lulling closed again.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

* * *

The curtains are opened, and bright sunshine filters inside the room.

“ _Whatimeisit_ ,” he mumbles into his pillow, lying face down and scarcely able to move.

“Around lunch time,” comes the worried reply. The mattress sags beside him, and he feels her hand trail up and down the centre of his back.

He drifts off for a while longer, until the mid-afternoon when Linka pokes and prods him into a semi-coherent wakefulness, and orders him about with the effectiveness of a drill sergeant. She helps him to the bathroom where he braces himself against the wall and expels what seems like a never-ending stream of urine.

His kidneys are still complaining loudly as he hobbles into the shower, still clad in his boxers. He calls her in, needing help to stand under the piss-weak stream dribbling down over their heads. She’s fully clothed and doesn’t seem to care, her arms slipping around his waist as she supports his weight.

He feels like hammered shit.

Propping his chin on her shoulder, Wheeler closes his eyes, allowing her to wash him down with soap and shampoo. Her hands are small and slippery, and even in his semi-lucid state, he registers the fact that he has a raging erection pressed against her belly, but he’s too exhausted to do anything about it.

They’ve been here before. Different location and circumstances, sure, but there’s an element of déjà vu as they sway under the water, and he knows it’s probably on her mind as well.

Again, the thought crosses his mind.

_How the fuck did we get here?_

* * *

She’s by his side with a grimy hotel glass, pulling him upright and forcing more foul-tasting water into his mouth. He blanches, choking, but Linka is nothing if not persistent, making him drink every last ounce.

“Nurse Ratchet,” he rasps through dry, parched lips, and a delighted grin transforms her previously worried expression. Wheeler rubs his face, taking in their surroundings for what seems like the first time. “How long have I been —”

“Five days,” she replies.

“What?” Startled, he tries to sit up again, realising the timeframe to collect the passports and birth certificates has come and gone. “You kiddin’? We gotta go get —”

She pushes him back gently, motioning toward a cream-colored envelope on the small dinette. “Already done.”

“What —”

“I already have them,” she assures him.

“You went out on your own?”

“I picked them up yesterday,” She shrugs. “I had no choice. I left a note in case you woke up again.”

He expels a harsh breath and sinks back against the pillows, staring at the envelope. “Everything in there we paid for?”

She nods.

“ _S’good,_ ” he sighs, raising a shaky hand to his forehead. He eyes the grocery bags propped on top of the round side table. “How much money do we have —”

“Twenty-three dollars,” she says solemnly. “We are paid up for tonight and tomorrow, and then…” Linka shrugs, looking away and biting her lip.

He slips an arm around her neck, nuzzling her forehead, and she cuddles into him, lying her head on his shoulder. Lin looks exhausted. Her eyes are bloodshot and the bags beneath them are large enough to warrant their own zip code.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” he says, guilt ridden at the thought of her soldiering on alone. “This has been one complete fucking disaster after the next —”

“I thought you were going to die, again,” she whispers, hugging him tighter. “Your pulse rate dropped. Your temperature would not come down. You were shaking so badly…”

“Jesus, babe —”

“I managed to get some antibiotics into you.” She nods toward the small dish beside the bed and the crumbled white powder residue remaining. A blister packet of tablets lies discarded nearby. “The same night you collapsed; I was able to start you on the ampicillin. You would not swallow them. I had to crush them and dissolve —”

“How’d you get your hands on —”

“There is a twenty-four-hour pharmacy around the corner.”

He frowns, still confused. “I still don’t —"

“There was a young man working the counter.” She smiles ruefully, passing him a lime green Powerade that he takes eagerly. “I had no choice. I could not afford them. I did not have a script and —”

He stares at her, and she sighs.

“I may have put on a thicker accent… invented a story about being a tourist… having my passport stolen… and my sick sister in the hostel.”

“And he gave ‘em to you?” he asks, sipping his Powerade and wincing as it burns his dry throat.

“It took a little convincing,” she says, blushing and not quite meeting his eyes. “In the end, we settled on a fair exchange.”

“Which was?”

“Out the back… I may have let him… uh —” Linka makes a circular motion close to her breasts, and he stares at her in confusion.

“Huh?” he says dumbly.

“He was eighteen,” she says, bright red and desperately awkward. “It was midnight. We were the only two there… He had never seen… any… uh, up close.”

“Seen what?”

“I let him… you know.” She cups her breasts again in her palms, squeezing gently.

The penny drops, and Wheeler’s mouth hangs open.

“Wait, you what?”

“But he gave me two boxes of medication,” she says, perking up somewhat. She gathers the Walgreens bags and dumps the contents proudly onto the bed. “Two bottles of Powerade, too…”

“Uh,” he says, still stunned and scratching his head. “Wow, okay —"

“… and bandages, antiseptic, plasters, toothpaste, toothbrushes, paracetamol, shampoo,” she rattles on, rifling through the packaging strewn across the mattress. “Peroxide, Tic Tacs, Jolly Ranchers. A few candy bars —”

“You don’t say…”

“Deodorant, power bars, a box of pringles. Razors. There was a fridge magnet in there somewhere, but I think it fell out while I was carrying them back —"

He stares at her, dumbfounded at the sheer amount of random crap on display. “Just how long did the little bastard feel you up, for?”

She bursts out laughing. “Long enough,” Linka admits, reaching over and stroking his face, looking relieved beyond measure to see him awake and talking. “I did what I had to.”

“Kid must have gotten his money’s worth.” Reaching for a can of pringles, he pops the lid, and polishes off half the container, because his stomach is turning inside out and about to start eating itself. “Out of it for a few days and this is what you get up to,” he says, grinning through a mouth full of processed potato snacks.

“He kept placing things in my basket.” Linka looks rather pleased with herself. “Who was I to say no?”

“I’m not complainin’,” he assures her.

She regards him fondly, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “You still need a haircut, Yankee.”

“Shave, too,” he muses, smoothing a hand over the thick stubble covering his cheeks and chin. He slumps back against the pillows and closes his eyes, already exhausted. “Ugh.”

“Get some sleep, _moya lyubov_ ,” she says. “I will see what I can do about staying past tomorrow night —”

“Any news on the money situation?”

“Mishka has not posted anything online. I have been checking the message board daily.”

“Without a computer?”

“There is an internet café two blocks away,” she explains. “I do not think the money has cleared.”

He nods, sipping more Powerade. “When it does, we’ll need to withdraw the lot and high-tail it outta here pretty quick.”

“ _Da_ ,” she says absently, reaching for his hand and clasping it warmly in her own. “I know.”

Turning her palm face-up, his thumb traces the veins running along her inner wrist. He runs his gaze over her worriedly, noting her rumpled clothing and pale skin. Linka’s hair is pulled into her usual messy bun, only now it’s an oily dark brown. The drab color only accentuates the dark circles still present beneath her eyes.

“You don’t look good, Lin,” he says softly.

She bites her lip, looking away, and he can already see the tears welling at the ends of her long lashes. “I am tired of being tired,” she whispers.

“Can’t catch a break, can we?”

She shakes her head, and he pulls her back against his chest and wraps his arms around her. They cuddle together in bed for a while, quiet and content, watching the television until she finally falls asleep, her nose pressed into his neck and her breath light and even on his skin.

Around midnight, he lowers Linka to the mattress and covers her sleeping body with the quilt. Getting to his feet, Wheeler stretches the kinks out of his muscles before padding barefoot to the small dinette, eyeing the manilla envelope lying on the surface.

Yawning, he sinks into the chair, tipping out the contents and rifling through the documents. Two crisp, navy blue passports are housed within identical clear, plastic sleeves. He pulls them out and flicks through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for, trying to acquaint himself with the innocuous, random name printed on the identity page alongside his photograph.

The new version of him.

He glances through Linka’s too, aware that they’re gonna have to come up with one hell of a back story to cover her ass and explain away the non-European name and place of birth.

He rubs his forehead wearily. It’s all too much to take in. Briefly, he considers crawling back into bed beside the girl slumbering nearby. Curling up beside her warm body is awfully tempting, but ultimately, he decides not to.

He’s slept enough.

* * *

“Hold still, Yankee.”

He sighs, tipping his head forward as she works the mixture into his hair, a combination of peroxide, lemon juice and baking soda. Her fingers are deft and sure, and he zones out for a while, closing his eyes as the goop starts to sizzle and fizz, no doubt already stripping the red pigment from his hair.

His name is now officially gone. May as well erase the only other trademark characteristic he owns. He lowers his head further as she massages his scalp, frowning at the mirror and lamenting their circumstances for what seems like the hundredth time today.

_Fucking Blight._

“How long does this shit need to stay on?”

“We will try for half an hour, _Nathan_ ,” she says with a hint of mirth.

He groans. “Aw, don’t call me that.”

“We need to practice —”

“But why _Nathan_?” he groans. “Sounds like a Canadian real estate developer —”

A grin breaks out on her face, visible in the reflection of the mirror. “Well, your suggestions were not to be taken seriously.”

“I still maintain that ‘Duke Manrod’ was a perfectly acceptable —"

“No —”

“Maximus Overkill —”

“We are meant to be avoiding attention, Yankee,” she giggles.

“Virile, masculine names.” He scowls into the mirror. “Goddamn _Nathan_.”

Linka winds her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. “Well, I asked for something that sounded European and got ‘Rachel’ instead."

“Better than Bertha or Helga,” he muses. “Ursula?”

“Yuck.” She smiles at him tiredly before gathering the towels and disappearing. “We have three slices of day-old bread left, by the way,” she calls out to him. “And nothing to fill it with.”

“Terrific,” he sighs, folding his arms as he waits for the required half hour of bleaching to expire. “Fucking Blight.”

* * *

The clouds are threatening to release their wrath while he waits for Linka. Thunder sounds in the distance, and he glances up nervously, tucked between the concrete bollards outside the museum in an effort to avoid the sleet falling, as well as the bank security cameras outside trained on the street.

It’s an unseasonably cold day.

More to the point, it’s fucking freezing.

The one hoodie in his possession was left unsalvageable after several hours of heavy Deputy-Dave inspired bleeding. It was tossed into the dumpster behind the first hotel they fled to, so he’s now down to three tee shirts, one pair of jeans and two pairs of shorts, all of which are forced to undergo a constant rotation of washing, drying and wearing.

The New York Yankees cap sits firmly upon his head, the brim low down over his eyes, more to hide the unfortunate tone of straw-blonde hair beneath it than to avoid detection.

He’s still getting used to it.

He glances again toward the front doors of the bank on the other side of the street, feeling apprehensive. It’s been fifteen minutes since she headed inside, and he considers the possibility that something has gone wrong.

He’s concerned that the lone debit card isn’t enough, despite the fact they’ve crossed two state lines based on a coded message that finally appeared last night in a Russian online chat room.

Stressed that they’ve been directed to a branch with a supposed financial enterprise agreement with Linka’s dodgy Soviet-era banking corporation… who may not honor the arrangement.

He’s worried the police have been called.

Then, the unpalatable thought hits him, that a thick-set Ukrainian psychopath with a buzz cut has snuck her out the back entrance. That maybe Kroi has already loaded her body into the boot of his car and is on his way to Blight by now. The man has two and a half million reasons to do so.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Wheeler starts to walk, gritting his teeth against the cold gusts of wind, but he slows to a stop as a lone figure appears opposite, looking just as cold and poorly dressed for the weather. She descends the stairs and hurries to meet him; the backpack big and cumbersome on her small frame.

There’s a massive grin on Linka’s face as she approaches.

“How did you go —”

She throws herself into his embrace, flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his throat. A heavy sense of relief floods through him as he hugs her back tightly, lifting her off the ground and holding her close.

“Seventy-two thousand,” she whispers through her tears, pressing herself against him with a sigh. “And change.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he sighs, kissing her smiling, upturned mouth. “We’d better start movin’.”

He takes the heavy backpack and wraps an arm around her shoulders, guiding her away. Being out in the open with wads of hard cash, they’re like sitting ducks. The plan is to head south, transfer the cash into large denominations of traveller’s cheques and get her the hell out of the country.

They move toward the taxi rank, heading toward the train station with everything they own… which wasn’t much prior to now, but their good fortune seems to have increased.

And he knows in the grand scheme of things, the money isn’t a lot… but for now, it’s enough.

* * *

They board a Greyhound bus service the same evening and spend the next sixty hours reclining in relative comfort, watching the landscape flash by, in no particular hurry to get where they’re going…

But content in the knowledge that they’re finally on their way.

They transfer buses twice before alighting at the Mexican border with the rest of the passengers, waiting within a cordoned off area while the bus and luggage is checked. Sniffer dogs are led past on leads, checking over the vehicles travelling in the queue in both directions, looking for drugs or cash… or illegals trying their luck.

“Saw a show once,” he says, leaning close to Linka. “Border Security, or somethin’. Stashed a woman between the engine and the car dashboard. She was wedged in real good.”

“Really?”

“Took six officers to pull the car apart and get her out.”

Linka looks perturbed at the thought. “Have you taken your tablet?”

“Not yet —”

She calls him something mildly insulting in Russian and reaches for her handbag, popping open the blister packet and shoving the tablet toward him. “You cannot forget —”

“In light of our current circumstances?” he says, raising his eyebrows as he downs the pill with a bottle of water. “Yeah, I can —”

“Three times a day, Yankee —”

“What is the nature of your visit?”

A voice interrupts, and Wheeler blinks in surprise. A uniformed officer has made his way down the line to them. Taking the passports clutched in their hands, he checks both their credentials and eyes them carefully. Linka shrinks back, and Wheeler is momentarily flustered for words.

He suspects that admitting to fleeing from government agencies, a psychotic scientist and a Slavic psychopath may raise unwanted suspicions.

“Cancun,” he manages to blurt out instead. “Holiday.”

“Right,” the officer replies with no interest whatsoever, handing back the passports and moving to the next person in line. “Have a great trip, sir.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, ushering Linka back onto the bus.

They take their seats, and he glances back as the bus pulls away and continues it’s journey down the highway, knowing their first major hurdle has been passed with flying colors.

* * *

The border is left behind and Wheeler begins to breathe a little easier. They alight in Mexico City and find a room downtown. It’s cheap, but clean and tidy, and a welcome change to the flea-bitten hellholes they’ve existed in until now. Unpacking the scarce amount of items brought with them, they sleep for twelve hours straight as soon as their heads hit the pillow

They head out the following morning, transferring their cash into travellers’ cheques at various banks, so they’re not looking so conspicuous hefting around a suspect-looking bag.

He also knows that the security and tracing procedures are not as rigid, here.

They grab a bite to eat, their first decent meal in a week and a half, and head to a department store, grabbing some new clothes and browsing the electronic aisles until Linka finds something that suits her needs.

The first major purchase is a laptop computer. It’s a necessary commodity, since Linka’s skills are second to none. It’s Linka’s best form of currency, as she has the means to hack servers, issue documents and forge more aspects of their new identities. A computer also brings a sense of security, a way of tracking those who mean them harm.

Laden with their purchases, they head back to the hotel. She works into the night, setting up baseline encryptions and firewalls and network protocols, along with every manner of technical jargon known to man.

He understands none of it, but he’s content to watch her work, her fingers slim and graceful as they work over the keypad in a blur of flesh-colored tones.

Clad only in her underwear, she’s curled up against Wheeler’s bare chest, her elbows resting on his knees and the laptop perched on her thighs. Her freshly washed hair lies loose around her shoulders, still damp at the ends and curling prettily.

They haven’t made love since the supposed safe house in D.C. Too busy running, or too stressed, or too broke, or too ill to consider anything other than surviving.

Their previous couplings were marked by fear and uncertainty, or tempered by their circumstances, or in the presence of friends in the next room, or strangers standing guard nearby.

There was always an elephant in the room. But for the first time, it’s just the two of them, and the uncertainty has been replaced by a cautious sense of hope and optimism.

He distracts himself while she works, his lips brushing against her neck and his fingers tracing lightly over her skin.

Another file is downloaded and installed, and Wheeler watches with fading interest, more concerned with the woman reclined comfortably between his legs.

Slipping his hand into the cup of her bra, he fills his palm with the soft flesh of her breast, squeezing gently, and her fingers hover over the keypad as she lets out a soft sigh.

“Tracing program,” she hums, tipping her head back and nipping his earlobe. “We can track names and known aliases. Pinpoint their locations.”

“Really?”

“It should send an alert whenever anyone crosses over a border. I have also set facial recognition parameters to active, wherever available.”

“Can you do that?”

She gives him a look, and he chuckles.

She enters multiple names into the search box, including some he’s never heard of and presses enter. Linka tilts her head to the side, breathing heavily as his other hand starts to roam, smoothing over her ribs and the flat plane of her stomach.

His fingers dip under the laptop and stroke their way along her inner thighs. The operating system seems to triangulate, and at that point, she shoves the laptop aside and twists around, scrambling forward and spreading her knees either side of his hips, straddling him.

Linka sinks down onto his lap and kisses him hard, grinding her hips rhythmically against his. Grabbing her ass, he locks her in place as they rub and writhe together, building a delicious friction.

Gathering her up, he tips her back onto the mattress, kissing and licking his way down her throat. Her legs wrap around his waist, her ankles linked at the small of his back as she pulls him in close with a contented sigh.

“What’s the score?”

“Uh…” she moans as he ducks his head and sucks a pink nipple into his mouth. Linka arches her back as his tongue flicks her gently. “Three?”

“Not countin’ sex, toots,” he teases, his thumb tracing back and forth over the soft contours through her thin, cotton panties. “I reckon we’re at four.”

“Missed…. a few… games,” she sighs. “Oh, that feels good...”

He indulges her for a while, stroking and circling, watching the way her fingers curl and clench beside her face, and the little frown of concentration developing between her eyebrows. He kisses her there, just as her hand slips beneath his boxers and curls around his length... and he knows it’s time to step up to the plate and get things done.

Lifting her hips, he strips off the last of her underwear and hooks her leg roughly over his shoulder. He pushes into her slowly, and she turns her head to the side, her eyes fluttering closed and her lips parted.

“Oh my god —"

“Batter up,” he mumbles into her throat as they move together, finding a rhythm that works.

His gaze eventually drifts to Linka’s laptop, discarded nearby and nudging precariously closer to the edge of the mattress with each thrust.

Several red dots have appeared on the world map grid on the monitor, blinking benignly at them, with names and coordinates attached.

Andrei Kroi’s name is one of them, and Wheeler slows down for a moment, fumbling forward and slamming the monitor shut.

Sliding an arm beneath her neck, he cradles her face and kisses her deeply, resuming their nocturnal activities.

Because they’ve given that bastard enough thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there,
> 
> Not sure if you guys are still enjoying this (it's been pretty quiet the last few chapters), but I thought I'd pop a couple of trivia items in.
> 
> 1\. The title of 'Only Shadows Ahead' comes from the Crowded House song 'Don't Dream it's Over'. The title of this fic also comes from a Crowded House song, namely 'Into Temptation'. It was the first of many hints I dropped relating to the origins of 'Where You Belong.'
> 
> 2\. This fic will be separated into three story arcs: Linka, Wheeler, then a third voice you haven't heard from yet.
> 
> 3\. A couple of original characters will make a re-entry down the track.


	15. Somewhere

Wheeler can already smell the salt in the air. The ocean is so close, he can taste it.

The bus is standing room only, and stinks of perspiration and other gross bodily functions that waft their way. The window is open, and the breeze is quite strong, but other than that, it’s not doing much to make the journey any more enjoyable.

A man laden up with luggage swings around in the aisle next to their seat, and Linka cops a bulky camera bag to the side of her face. She leans against Wheeler, rubbing her cheek, and he pulls her closer, draping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the afflicted area. The gears grind and clunk, and the bus sputters forward with an unimpressive amount of momentum.

“Faster to walk,” he grumbles, and Linka grins, squeezing his thigh with one hand and holding her straw hat in place with the other, lest it get sucked out the window and disappear down the highway.

Linka leans forward in her seat, craning her neck, but there’s nothing to see; nothing except sweaty bodies, green, bushy foliage, and overpass bridges that Wheeler unconsciously ducks his head under whenever they approach, much to Linka’s amusement.

There’s a Go-Mart on the right, and quite a few black, heavy-duty vehicles on the road, with beefy, tattooed Mexicans behind the wheel — who may or may not have weapons and illegal drugs stashed somewhere inside.

The terrain begins to change. Hotels crop up after they pass the airport, and the skyline looms with white, high rise buildings in the distance. After another ten minutes, the bus pulls into a terminal in a busy, bustling tourist district, and they debate getting off. In the end, they decide to remain, settling back and watching half the passengers depart and disperse into the crowded terminal.

Ten minutes later and they’re on the move again, passing through the centre of town and heading down the boulevard, where the lagoon gleams bright aqua. He can see the beach between the multi-storey hotels, as well as the coral reef beyond.

They pass some sprawling five-star beachfront resorts, and Linka peers out the window with interest. Tourists young and old are out and about in swimwear, and there are plenty of shops and restaurants, packed to the brim and bustling with holidaymakers.

The bus pulls into the next stop, and there’s a Starbucks on the corner, along with mid-level accommodation options littered along the way, and that’s all Wheeler needs to make a decision.

He gets to his feet, hoisting their bags over his shoulder and ushering Linka down the aisle.

“Are we there?” she asks, taking his hand. “Do you know where we are —"

“No idea,” he remarks. “Goin’ on a hunch.”

She falls into step behind him, probably not too concerned, because Wheeler has a tendency to land on his feet.

The weather outside is hot and humid as they step off the bus. The heat hits them full blast, and they begin by polishing off two icy chocolate Frappuccino thingies with far too much whipped cream. He’s still buzzing from the sugar rush by the time they wander the downtown strip, taking in the sights and keeping their eyes open for somewhere suitable.

They find something after half an hour of walking; a two-star hotel/hostel down a side street on the lagoon side, filled with shifty-looking staff who seem just as likely to rob them while completing room service duties. Having said that, the location is great, the pool is huge, and the grounds are neat and inviting, despite the crocodile warning signs along the shoreline.

They pay for a couple of nights and wander through the gardens, following the signs until they find their room.

It’s small in size but functional, with a double bed and a small patio overlooking the lagoon. They dump their bags on the mattress and sink down onto it, taking stock of the fact that they’re here and they’re alive.

Lin spends the afternoon hunting down an ethernet connection to get her online and running. She gets to work, sitting upright on the bed and hacking the DMV first. She sets up their drivers’ licences within half an hour, using the hotel as the forwarding address, while Wheeler sits out on the patio with a beer, watching the sun shimmer on the water and feeling more at peace than he has for a while.

She moves onto bank accounts next, then social security numbers, email accounts and other items they’ll eventually need to set up a life before leaving the country for good.

By mid-afternoon, they lock their valuables away and head out into town, buying decent suitcases and a few more items of much-needed clothing. They walk the boulevard at sunset hand-in-hand and check out the beach, before returning the purchased goods to their room, thankfully finding no aforementioned shifty-looking staff rifling through their stuff.

They get changed and head back out, wandering the streets until they find a restaurant a few blocks away. They spend the evening debriefing; eating tacos and consuming far too many margaritas, and he’s surprised at how normal it feels.

It’s the first time in nearly two weeks that they’ve slowed down to an acceptable pace. Neither he nor Linka has glanced over their shoulder today, fearful of assailants lurking in the shadows. They haven’t been consumed by uncertainty or marked by sheer, utter exhaustion.

They stick to fluffy, positive topics and tend to avoid anything capable of triggering a reaction. He’s not uncaring; far from it. He misses his friends deeply. They’re often at the forefront of his mind: Kwame, Gi and Ma-Ti. Mishka, and to a lesser degree, his parents… who never returned that final voicemail he left them, done out of a weary sense of obligation rather than familial courtesy.

There will come a time when the subject is broached, of how they lost everything they owned and everyone they loved, and how they came to be in the situation they are. The grief and anger will kick in at some point. He has no doubt of that.

For now, he listens to Linka wax lyrical about the complexities of Mexican culture; her tongue loosening with each subsequent margarita. She’s in a giggly mood, and he wonders if having an inebriated Russian vomiting on his shoes is on the agenda.

Lin’s wearing a pretty white dress, one that she picked up from an outlet and changed into before dinner. The straps are tied in bows at the shoulders, and he sincerely thanks her for choosing such a considerate piece of clothing for him to destroy later on.

“They are bows, Jake,” she says breathlessly, rolling her eyes and grinning. “How hard can they be?”

He watches Linka fondly while she talks. The dark circles under her eyes have vanished. She’s smiling more, and seems softer, and more lovely. After several washes, her hair has lightened somewhat, and sits wavy and loose two inches below her shoulders. The colour is more matched to her pale complexion and doe-eyed expression.

“Is this our first date?” she asks, pushing her plate aside and leaning forward on her elbows, smiling at him.

Wheeler reaches for her hand. He runs his thumb over her palm, kissing her knuckles while he considers the question.

He supposes it is.

* * *

There’s a live band playing in the bar next to the reception. It’s loud and jarring, even within the confines of their room on the other side of the compound, but they pay it no mind. She draws in a shallow breath as he pushes her gently against the wall. He presses himself close, tracing his thumb over her lips, her jaw and her cheek with a quiet, adoring reverence.

The necklace he bought Lin in Tijuana sits around her throat, the chain fine and dainty against her skin, a reminder of a time when he offered meaningless trinkets instead of shouting declarations of undying love from the rooftops.

He slips the straps from her shoulders, and the dress falls to the floor in a heap, pooling around her feet. Her arms fall limply by her sides, and just when he’s debating the semantics of how this is going to go down, she turns the tables on him.

Linka sinks to her knees; her fingers unbuttoning his fly and tugging his jeans down around his thighs. He utters a groan as his cock is exposed to the warm night air, and, at that point, all rational thought flies out the window.

He can feel her warm breath close to the tip, and he wants to look, wants to watch, wants to touch but he’s already on a hair trigger and primed to explode. He picks a spot on the wall opposite and stares at that instead, clenching his fists behind his back, even when he feels her lick lightly along the underside of his shaft, teasing him. She trails her tongue up and down, in no particular hurry, before gripping the base and swallowing him whole.

His knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and a low growl issues from his lips as she goes to work. Her head bobs up and down, and he grits his teeth, his eyes now fixed on a round canvas by the door, staring at the swirly brushstrokes, because the aforementioned wall isn’t working.

He’s hard and aching, wanting to prolong the inevitable, trying to ignore the wet, sucking sounds issuing from below. After a couple of minutes, he can’t help himself. He lowers his gaze, running a hand through her hair and catching a glimpse, and he knows, then and there, that he’s done for.

The memory stays with him for years afterward; of Linka, gloriously naked; bowed forward on her knees, her lips sliding wetly up and down his shaft to the sound of loud mariachi music.

His hands clutch the back of her head, gripping her hair and forcing her deeper until his groin tightens and flips and he explodes inside her mouth and down her throat.

At that point, his legs give way and he sinks down to the floor beside her, exhausted and spent.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps, flopping onto his back and tossing an arm over his face, his voice an octave higher than usual. He’s sweating, his heart still pounding hard in his chest. “Holy shit…”

They remain where they are, with the fan circulating above them and not a single word spoken between them. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Lin rolls onto her side and lies quietly, looking just as baffled by what went down.

He gives himself ten minutes to recover before returning the favor.

“C’mere,” he grunts, reaching for her ankles and dragging her to him. Forcing her knees apart, he dives face-first between her thighs, struck by the need to possess her… to own her, completely and unequivocally.

She gasps, her body twitching and quivering beneath his hands, but he holds her firm, granting the same mercy she bestowed upon him earlier… which isn’t much.

The band plays on, drowning out a multitude of sounds and sins.

They don’t leave the room for the next seven days.

* * *

He touches her because he can.

He kisses the moles and freckles on her skin while she sleeps. He smooths his hand over her shoulder blades, and up and down the center of her back, liking the way her skin feels beneath his fingertips.

He traces the veins in her wrists, and slides his palm over her bottom, cupping her gently.

He strokes her hair, fascinated at the texture, and the way the strands slip lightly through his fingers. He runs his thumb over a scar on her hip, the mark so pale he can barely see it at all.

He breathes in her scent and immerses himself in knowing every angle and curve and dip of her body, committing each and every detail to memory, studying her with a reverent, loving curiosity.

He touches her because he can.

Often, she sleeps, but sometimes she wakes, her long lashes fluttering open, and a bemused smile on her lips. They’ll lie naked, side by side, regarding one another quietly.

Eventually, he’ll pull her into his arms, or she’ll burrow into him with a sigh of utter contentment. Eventually the lines will blur, the line separating comfort and need. They’ll consume one another, and she’ll call his name right before she comes, the name he offered her during a moonlit swim on a warm, summer night.

The name he gave her freely, but no longer has the right to claim ownership of.

Sometimes they’ll eat on the bed, lying on their stomachs, their legs folded and swinging in the air, picking at the room service food and watching the television. Sometimes they’ll shower, embraced together under the faucet, her face nestled against his chest as his hands run soap all over her body, washing away the evidence of time spent.

They touch one another because they can.

Tonight, they lie amidst the sweaty afterglow of yet another long session. He’s still inside her, warm fluid leaking from where they remain joined, pooling on his abdomen and creating yet another sticky mess to clean up. She lies slumped over his chest, boneless and floppy, her knees clamped against his hips.

Slipping his arms around her waist, he holds her tight, pressing his face into her damp neck.

He tells her he loves her.

He hasn’t said it out loud in nearly three weeks, not since Washington, under the elm tree in the rain, when they were down to the wire and driven by necessity first, and emotion second.

He speaks it out loud tonight, without shame or self-consciousness, and she turns her face toward his with a drowsy smile, murmuring the same words against his patient, waiting lips.

* * *

“I just wanted to get into your pants,” he chuckles, pressing her naked body into the mattress as she grins up at him delightedly.

“Really?”

“Lust at first sight.” He lowers his head and nips her bottom lip. “You were the sexiest little thing I’d ever laid eyes on.”

“Mmm?”

“Yep,” he says. “Took me a while to realize it went deeper.”

“Me too,” she sighs. “I was so nervous around you, in the beginning… You would openly say things and suggest things of a sexual nature… that were just not spoken about in Russia. It was one of the biggest culture shocks for me.”

“So, in hindsight — jammin’ a Lebanese cucumber down my pants on our first supply trip together wasn’t the best laid-out plan?”

“Not when you were openly comparing it to the size of your —"

“Least you’ve got a decent baseline for comparison, now,” he grins, chuckling as she takes a poorly aimed swipe at him.

“Men, in my country… courting is very formal. Traditional, if you will.” She frowns, an adorable crease developing between her eyebrows. “And then I met you…”

“The cocky American kid, comin’ onto you with the speed and intensity of a freight train?”

She laughs. “You were so direct. So confident and sure of yourself. The boys I was used to back home… you were nothing like them.”

“Last of the great pretenders —”

“No,” she says, touching his face. “It is just the way you are, Jake. You know what you want, and you go after it. There is power in that.”

“Came a little unstuck with you, babe.”

“I am not just meaning myself. It is with everything. You can just walk into a room and strike up a conversation with anyone. You would walk into a situation, as a Planeteer, and if any of us were paired with you, you knew what to do. We would feel safe… Gi always said the same thing. You would say what you mean and mean what you say.”

He tugs her earlobe gently. “Some would call that reckless.”

“Reckless?” She sighs, squeezing his waist with her thighs. “You risked your life for us, time and time again, without question. That is not recklessness.”

“Anyone woulda done that,” he scoffs.

“There is always a limit to one’s loyalty and sacrifice, Yankee.” She shakes her head, running her finger down his throat. “Remember the mine collapse? When Bleak chained me to the —”

“Big kaboom,” he says, touching his head subconsciously, recalling the double vision and headaches that remained for at least a month afterward.

“I think I knew then. You had come back for me without a second thought...“ She regards him solemnly. “I felt such guilt. I knew there was so much more to you. I remember sitting in your hut that night, pressing a packet of frozen vegetables against your head and watching you sleep. I remember hoping that after you woke up, maybe we might have the opportunity to talk, but…”

“Yeah,” he grimaces, knowing where this is going. “Yeah, I —"

“You took a couple of days leave instead and…”

“And spent them with someone else.” He purses his lips, sobered at the thought. “Yeah, I know.”

“I was so confused,” she says softly. “By the time I realised how I felt, you had moved on. I thought you had lost interest in me.”

“Babe, I think I’d shoved you so high up on my pedestal, I could no longer reach.” He traces the side of her face lovingly. “You always kept things pretty close to your chest.”

“I know.” Lin closes her eyes, tucking her face toward his. “You used to run on the beach every morning in our first year.”

“Yep.”

He feels her smile against his neck. “With your shirt off.”

“Uh huh.”

“I liked watching you,” she says, seeming almost pained to admit it. “I thought you were very handsome.”

“Really?”

“You were standing in the common room one day, talking to Kwame. You had a towel around your shoulders… all sweaty, with your big muscles.” She runs a hand over his forearms. “I must have been staring… I poured orange juice over my Cheerio’s.”

He snorts. “Oh dear.”

“It took me two spoonful’s to realise what I had done,” she laughs, flushing pink. “That was the first time Gi… she was laughing hysterically. She knew before I did, I think. I was so embarrassed.”

He grins, because he knows all too well about the constant interference from colleagues. “You remember that god-awful museum gala ball-thing we got roped into?”

“Yes?”

He lets out a low whistle. “You got my motor runnin’ that night, I can tell you.”

“Really?”

“Oh, man,” he murmurs, playing it over in his head. “Tight-fittin’ black dress and heels. Killer curves. Your hair was all loose over your shoulders. Red lips… and I’m sittin’ there, daydreamin’ about what I’d like to put in ‘em —”

“Wheeler!”

“I make no apologies.” He chuckles, smoothing a hand over her skin. “Rest of the night was crap, but at least it wasn’t a complete —”

“I had a good night? Why did —”

He sighs, scratching his head. “You were gettin’ a lot of attention. I’ll admit I wasn’t happy about it."

“Ladies are usually hanging off you at these types of events, Yankee,” she teases. “What made that night so different?”

“You,” he admits. “I had some perky senator’s aide chasin’ me round, flirtin’ up a storm, and for the first time, I was just like _fuck off, lady_. _Leave me alone_.” He shrugs, pinching her nose affectionately. “You were dancin’ with some guy. Good lookin’ and rich to boot, and I’m just sittin’ there, all pissed off and irritable… and probably a bit jealous.”

“I remember you disappearing out the back with Kwame.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. The guy drags me outside and just looks at me with the most exasperated expression while I’m goin off my head, spewin’ the usual threats. _Gonna punch his lights out_ … _He has no right to touch her… actin’ like he owns her…_ and Kwame says six words that just knocked me out off my feet.”

“What did he say?”

“Y _ou have yet to claim her,”_ he says, annunciating every word carefully, just as Kwame had. “And he was right. I had no right or claim when it came to you.”

“I did not know any of that,” she says solemnly.

“So, yeah. That was the night I officially stopped chasin’ other women. That was it. I was done.” He sighs, threading his fingers through hers. “And then Kroi attacked you, not long after,” he remarks, “and I thought we were over before we could even begin.”

She nods, squeezing his hand. “I was always worried we would burn bright and fade out,” she whispers. “I was scared of losing you.”

“You’re stuck with me,” he says, gathering her up in his arms, and pressing his mouth against her forehead. “Stuck whether you like it or not.”

“I like it…”

They lie quietly, tanged together amongst the sheets. He’s lost track of the days, to be honest. World War Three could be going on outside their door and they’d be too busy fucking to notice.

“I think we need to get out of the room, today,” she eventually sighs. “I feel I am becoming vitamin d deficient.”

“Reckon my skin’s startin’ to glow in the dark,” he mutters, because it’s been a revolving door of eating, sleeping and rampant, enthusiastic sex, and not necessarily in that order. “I feel like a vampire.”

“You look like one, too,” she mumbles against his skin.

He tugs her nipple playfully, glancing at the latest collection of metal room service containers piled up on the floor by the door. “We gotta put those out.”

“I hope the ‘do not disturb’ sign is still hanging,” she yawns, gathering the sheets around herself. “The staff will probably think we have been up to no good.”

“No thanks to the racket you were makin’ last night.”

“I was not!”

“Surprised the staff didn’t break down the damn door,” he mutters, lifting the sheet and slapping her bare ass as she giggles, red faced and embarrassed. “Probably thought I was murderin’ you.”

He gets to his feet and pads naked toward the shower, yawning widely and stretching his sore muscles.

Glancing at his reflection, he frowns, spotting the tell-tale rows of teeth imprints on his right shoulder. “Stop sinkin’ your fangs into me, woman,” he calls as he turns the shower on and runs a hand through his hair, glancing at his pasty complexion.

Some sunlight would do them both good.

* * *

They stay another week, until most of their documents arrive. Social security numbers have yet to be issued, but Linka assures him that she has access to the database anyway and will have no problem searching for it when (and if) they ever require them.

The flight out of Cancun is nerve wracking.

They approach the counter separately and choose seats apart from one another, in separate sections of the plane, playing it safe, because flight manifests and passenger movements are notoriously easy to track; available to those who have the means to find them, as are airport security feeds.

He plays it cool at passport control, keeping a careful eye on Linka two lines over, and they wait for their flight in the duty-free area, seated a few tables away from one another.

Sinking into his allocated chair, he plays with the entertainment screen for a while, and after a few minutes, he feels Linka’s fingers graze his shoulder as she passes, along with the scent of her perfume.

She takes her seat further down the aisle, and he distracts himself with Seinfeld reruns and processed meals that taste like rubber. The plane powers up, and they begin the take off process. As the world tilts and the coastline becomes smaller, they leave another piece of their old life behind.

They touch down in the Bahamas and spend a few days there, mainly because their next destination doesn’t offer connecting flights from Cancun. They splurge on decent accommodation for the next four nights, and spend their first day at the beach, soaking up the sun and getting massages... and long overdue haircuts.

On the second day, they head to the markets and browse the stalls. She buys a few new dresses and some cute little knick-knacks, and finishes the successful day of shopping with a new string bikini. Linka models it for him the same afternoon, and again, he thanks her for considering his need for easy access. She tosses her straw hat at Wheeler and calls him a name that doesn’t bear repeating, so he feels the need to demonstrate.

Turns out, she’s very obliging.

On the third day, they go snorkelling with a tour group, paddling through the reef and exploring with another three couples and a handful of eager kids.

All is going well until the midday lunch break.

It’s a lone pink Rip Curl wetsuit that brings Linka undone, lying discarded on the deck and left to dry in the sun between swims.

An innocuous wetsuit, almost identical to someone else’s, an individual who also bears an affinity with the water.

Their friends have been pushed to the back of their minds for the most part, an attempt to stay positive. Painful memories are dragged to the surface, memories of someone she’s been forced to leave behind, someone she misses greatly.

Linka stares at the wetsuit, and the grief hits her hard, her eyes welling up and her face falling. She sits tucked away in the far corner with her back to the lunchtime crowd, wiping heavy tears away while the others devour the salad and marinated chicken on offer, and it takes Wheeler a moment to realise what’s going on.

He grabs her hands and pulls her to her feet, leading her to the back of the boat. They drop down into the water, away from the curious stares. He holds her in his arms, letting his buoyancy vest keep them both afloat, kissing her eyes and nose and mouth, and allowing the saltwater to wash away her tears.

“I know, babe,” he says, hugging her tightly until she presses her face into his neck with a heavy sigh. “I know.

They spend the last day in the pool. The sun is hot on their skin as they move through the water. Linka’s legs are wrapped around his waist, her arms linked loosely around his neck. They drift together in utter relaxation, her chin resting on his shoulder.

He remembers the last body of water they were in with distinct clarity, remembers the way Linka’s soft bra-clad breasts had felt pressed against his bare chest, and how he had done battle with his conscience that night, his resolve slipping with each minute that ticked by.

“Was so close to seducin’ you that night,” he murmurs close to her ear.

“Hmm?”

“At the lake,” he says, kissing her neck. “Don’t think you had any concept of how close you came to gettin’ nailed, toots.”

“Really?”

“Wanted you so bad…”

Her lips graze his cheek. She looks up at him for what seems like the longest time, considering his words.

“You can have me any night you want, _moya lyubov.”_ She raises her mouth to his, and their lips meet gently.

He lifts and drags her through the water, oblivious to the dozens of holiday makers splashing around them, as if they were the only two people left in the world.

Wading through the depths, he carries her weight, just as he always does.

Just as he always has.

Just as he always will.

* * *

America is finally left behind for good. The decision is made with a certain amount of melancholy, knowing it will probably be the last time either of them set foot on land even remotely connected with the US.

They fly into Paris with a goal in mind, scrounging around the car yards until they find an old bomb of a Volkswagen van. The engine is touch and go, and the exhaust expels far too much black smoke, but it suits their needs and is big enough to fit a mattress and a rudimentary camp kitchen in the back.

It takes a couple of days for Wheeler to get her up and running at near-full capacity, and a further few days to modify the interior. He tinkers with some timber shelving around a portable gas hot plate, and boils the kettle to make tea, lamenting the fact he needs a lighter for the ignition switch these days.

Linka’s face stills. She regards him quietly from her sunny spot in a director’s chair nearby, her head tilted to the side.

“Capable of burning water, honey,” she says in a faraway voice, and the ghost of an old conversation comes back to haunt him.

He can’t remember where he said it, but it sounds familiar, maybe from their early days with the group.

“Still am,” he remarks, grinning widely.

They stock up on bedding, supplies and utensils at Ikea, and Linka browses the aisles happily, picking up items to make their new abode more homely.

Before long, they’re heading south, sticking to the coast and pulling in each night wherever they find a decent spot. They have no immediate destination in mind. They simply drive each day until the mid-afternoon, and if the location is nice, they stay for as long as they want. It’s cheaper and more cost effective, and it means they stay further off grid, providing easy access if they ever need to hightail it out of there.

They stop in Marseille and Nice for a few days each, looking around; just another young couple back-packing on a budget through Europe. They practice their new identities in pubs with the people they meet and retreat to their van after too many beers on more than one occasion.

One afternoon, like all the others prior, they pull into a quiet beach south of Genoa, Italy and swing the back door open to enjoy the view. After so many weeks of not letting Linka out of his sight, he forces himself to undertake a short walk along the shoreline — because he’s an extrovert, and she’s an introvert and despite the apprehension, he appreciates the fact she may need some time to herself.

He skips stones for a while, keeping an occasional eye trained on their vehicle, but the threat of homicidal henchmen is slowly dwindling to the back of his mind. He returns to finds Linka the same way he left her: perched on the edge of the open vehicle; one bare foot dangling over the side and the other leg folded underneath her.

She’s looking gorgeous in an oversized beige pullover and denim shorts. Her hair is glossy and loose over her shoulders, and her green eyes are sparkling. The ever-present laptop is balanced across her thigh and a steaming cup of tea is clutched within her hands. She glances up and smiles warmly at him, and he grins back, aware that he fucking adores this woman, and feeling like the luckiest bastard that even walked the planet.

The weeks turn into months. Linka spends some of this time establishing an online presence, offering freelance work, because she has nothing to lose by doing so. It’s worth a try.

Wheeler jokes with her, that she’s the only one capable of sitting on her ass and making money doing it, and she puts her middle finger to good use.

She goes overboard with the security protocols to avoid detection, and even sets up a fake male online persona, because let’s face it, most hackers are men, and even hacking is gender-biased toward the masculine.

They’re in a small B&B in Naples, taking a break from the camper, when she manages to snag her first client. Unprepared and without an identity to offer, she asks Wheeler one night, in the middle of a heavy make-out session, what a ‘suitable’ man’s name might be.

With his mouth clamped over her breast, his mumbled response of ‘what the fuck’ sets her off, and she’s shrieking with laughter when he drags her up and heaves her into a standing position, before bending her forward over the bed. She’s breathless and still giggling when he strokes her open with his fingers and begins slamming into her hard, offering to show her what a ‘suitable’ man can do.

They settle on ‘Max Power’ in the end, because he’ll be damned if at least one of his preferred witness protection options doesn’t get used.

It’s not long before she has a few clients, and the money starts rolling in. It’s a lucrative business, mostly ‘ethical’ hacking: testing for server insecurities for big corporations and suggesting the best ways to lock down their data.

It pays well and is enough to live off comfortably. They bank what remains of her family inheritance and continue roaming the countryside. He complains that he feels a bit useless; self-conscious at not being able to contribute financially.

She puts a stop to that quick smart, crawling over the rumpled sheets and sinking into his lap. She stares him down sternly.

“You have looked after me for all these years,” she assures him, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him tenderly. “We are doing this together. It is our money.”

He nods, still unconvinced, but willing to let it go… for now.

“Besides,” she says, squeezing his shoulders. She pats his cheek fondly. “You are paying me in orgasms, remember.”

“Our scoreboard blew up weeks ago,” he retorts as she jumps down and disappears around the side of the van as the sun sets in the distance, her pretty sarong floating along behind her.

* * *

The afternoon ferry from Brindisi to Corfu awaits, and they leave the van locked amongst the other stationary vehicles below deck, in transit like the rest of them. 

They reach the passenger lounge and find a comfortable spot to recline by the window as the ferry steams through open water, watching the large waves that generate a fair amount of chop.

It’s Lin’s birthday today, they’re mortified to discover, neither having realised until glancing at the front page of the newspaper left discarded nearby. He buys her a vanilla cupcake from the café, arranged beautifully on a plate with dusted sugar, and strawberry syrup writing that spells out a name that is neither Linka nor Rachel, because he still likes fucking with her.

She’s delighted by it nonetheless, and they celebrate her 26th birthday in style, despite the fact that another date of birth has since superseded it. There’s no candle, but she makes a wish and blows out an imaginary flame, tucking into the treat and grinning as he wipes away the remnants of sugared frosting still gathered in the corner of her mouth.

They alight in Corfu and spend a week soaking up the sun, before heading over to the mainland. They run into their first major snag soon after — two, in fact.

The van breaks down on a lonely stretch of road outside of Tiria, and it’s an elderly farmer in overalls who comes to their rescue, pulling over to the side with his semi-trailer full of goats loaded up in the back. He gives them a lift into town, glad for the company. Linka chats to their new friend while a horned goat stares sullenly at Wheeler through the Perspex window at the back of his head. They wait in a gas station café while the local mechanic sources the part they need and are soon on their way again.

The second issue is a far more concerning development — the first alert issued via Lin’s software. Someone’s details have pinged, in close proximity to their location — a credit card issued under one of Andrei Kroi’s aliases.

He appears to be two countries away and too close for comfort.

They spend a tense couple of days keeping an eye on the screen, waiting to see if anything comes of it, but his details show up a few days later in Romania, and then the Ukraine.

“Probably visiting Mummy dearest,” Wheeler says, and they begin to breathe a little easier.

They end up in Athens and do the tourist thing, checking out the colosseum and driving to the historical sites throughout the country, and it’s here that they have their first major fight.

Linka insists on navigating, yet struggles with the enormous roadmap that takes up most of the windshield. He’s getting the shits because she’s reading it wrong, and they’re ending up on highways where they can’t turn around, going in the wrong direction. Before long, winding, residential streets become the norm, and then a narrow dirt road that lead to nowhere.

They’re both stressed and tired and snapping at one another, and it’s already dark when they end up stuck in the middle of a field of corn, shouting back and forth until she bursts into tears.

Reigning himself in, he turns the ignition off and kills the lights, figuring if they’re gonna be stranded, they might as well call it a night. Unbuckling her seatbelt, he pulls her into his lap and puts his arms around her, feeling ashamed.

“You know me better than anyone,” he says softly, kissing her cheek and stroking her hair as she sniffles quietly into his neck. “I come with no patience and a big-ass temper, babe.”

“Never towards me,” she says quietly, and he winces, because that one hurts… and because she’s absolutely right.

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

She nods as he dries her tears. He apologises again, and they retire to bed, stuck in the middle of nowhere, the breeze ruffling the crops and causing the bulky stalks to scrape and brush against the sides. He soon has her smiling again, and they make love within the darkened confines of the van amongst the sound of crickets and the odd distant dog barking.

They move on the next morning, with some fresh corn in their little pantry, before the threat of pissed-off farmers with flames and pitchforks can drive them out forcibly.

* * *

“What do you think they are doing right now?”

“Hmm?”

She lowers her head, leaning against the railing as the wind blows her hair about, deep in thought. “Gi. Ma-Ti and Kwame.”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken their names in a while. He leans forward as well, thinking long and hard about the question, glancing at the whitewash surging beneath the hull as the sea ferry spirits them across the Aegean.

“Kwame will be rebuilding his garden,” he eventually says, pulling her against him, because she’s shivering due to the overcast day. He smiles, propping his chin on her shoulder and wrapping her up in his arms. “Ma-Ti will be on his own, meditating in some corner of the rainforest. Gi will be livin’ it up, swimmin’ and causin’ the usual trouble… but missin’ you.”

“I worry about them,” she whispers, her eyes glistening. “I hope my brother is all right.”

“I’m sure he’s doin’ fine.

“I am all he had left.”

“He’s a tough nut.”

“Everything we were forced to leave behind…”

“I know —”

“I have a brother I cannot call,” she says softly. “I have a name I cannot use. A grave I cannot touch. Friends I can no longer see and belongings I could not take. Books I can no longer read. A diploma I cannot use. A degree I cannot begin… and a life I am no longer allowed to own.”

He nods, kissing her forehead, because there’s nothing he can say to take the pain away… but he’s surprised to see her face tipped back and a contented smile on her lips.

“But I have you,” she whispers, rising on her tiptoes and nuzzling his cheek. ”I finally get to have you, Yankee. I get to keep the best part.”

Rendered speechless, he cups her face in his hands and presses his mouth to hers. 

The wind whips around them and the sea spray dampens their clothes, until they’re still embraced together above deck and it’s getting too cold to function.

She holds onto him, her cheek pressed against his chest and her eyes shut. Before moving her inside the ferry, he takes one last look at the port of Piraeus, and the coastline getting smaller in the distance, knowing that in eight hours’ time, they will have reached the volcanic cliffs of Santorini.


	16. Sunrise

Just like every day prior, he wakes before the sun, blinking at the shrill beep of the alarm blaring beside his head. He fumbles for the stop button and garners the necessary willpower to swing his legs out of bed. Yawning, he stretches his muscles, readying himself for the gruelling workout ahead.

Glancing down at the sheet-covered lump beside him, he pulls a singlet and shorts on and grabs his sneakers, padding quietly across the small living area, careful not to wake her.

It’s still dark as he closes the door to the apartment. The air is cool and the narrow cobblestone streets are empty at this hour. He passes the bars and shops which show no sign of life; all bordered up and secured by aluminium shutters, scrawled with graffiti and yellowed with age, but knowing they’ll be open and buzzing with people by the mid-afternoon.

The place is like a maze, but he’s well practiced now at negotiating the alleys (and the odd stray dog) until he finds the main road.

He sets a decent pace, controlling his breathing, because this place is all mountains and inclines and he’s usually fucking exhausted by the time he even reaches the halfway point.

The caldera is a good mile away, since the spectacular water views were well and truly out of their budget. Lin balked at the prices when they first arrived, and they ended up finding a small villa a little further inland. It’s quaint and in a pretty spot, on the outskirts of Fira, with plenty of cafes and bars in close proximity.

He runs through the winding streets and veers off to the left, past the gas station and mini mart and their exorbitant prices, and before long he’s running alongside the coastline.

He crests downward, taking a short cut through another alleyway until he finds himself running along a row of jewellery and clothing shops. Through the gaps, he can see the panorama beyond; the bright blue of the Aegean shimmering on his left, as well as a mass of white rendered walls and blue domes jutting out from the cliff face.

A couple of cruise liners are already waiting in the harbour below. The island will be teeming with people by eight am, and he chooses to avoid the rush.

The weather is cracking; not a cloud in the sky and shaping up to be a beautiful day. He’s already sweating by the time he slows his pace, jogging the remainder of the way until he reaches his favourite café, one of the few open at this ungodly hour.

The waiter waves him in and gets started on his order. Wheeler doesn’t even have to ask.

He sinks down into his usual spot as he catches his breath, already sweating due to the high humidity. The view is spectacular at this time of the morning, all pinks and oranges and purples as the sun rises. It never fails to take his breath away. The first tender boats of the day are already motoring toward the ships in the distance; five hundred feet beneath his current position, and they look like tiny ants from here.

The cappuccino arrives, a Greek _Freddo_ that sufficiently cleans the insides out, and he sips it quietly, watching the first tender depart, chugging out toward the dock.

Once the first load of tourists arrives, he knows that five hundred and eighty-seven steps await them: or alternatively, packs of smelly, overworked donkeys to cart them up the cliff.

Then there’s the cable car for those without a sense of adventure.

Wheeler knows which option he’d be taking.

He stays for another twenty minutes, enjoying the serenity, just as he always does. He pays at the counter before he leaves and before long, he’s traversing the hills again, trying to keep up the momentum, because the return journey always hurts like hell.

There’s more traffic on the road now; taxis, motorbikes and buses. He stays to the side, since sidewalks are notably absent here.

He knows the way back well.

Left at the overpriced mini-mart. Left again at the laundromat and right at the aptly named ‘Banana Bar’, with the air conditioner unit that blows noisily at all hours and leaks copious amounts of water down the gutter. He swings into Lin’s favorite bakery and grabs her a blueberry muffin — still warm and fresh from the oven.

His muscles are screaming by the time he turns into their laneway. There’s barely enough room for pedestrians. The odd scooter or moped passes by and he flattens himself against the wall as one flies past carrying two people; a little too close for comfort.

Their door, like all the others in this street, is pale blue with no other identifying features, and he still finds himself counting the facades to make sure he’s entering the right one. He lets himself in, wondering for the umpteenth time if the ancient Therans had a two for one sale when the colour spectrum was being doled out.

Blue and white seems to be all the rage.

Having paid upfront for two weeks, they’re nearly at the end of the short-term rental agreement and are in negotiations to stay longer. It’s a small place but cosy; spanning three levels — a living area and kitchenette downstairs, a small bedroom and ensuite upstairs and a rooftop terrace shared with the identical unit next door.

They have no views from the roof; just a concrete wall on one side and the noise of the street below, but fairy lights hang overhead, and there’s a rattan table setting and small garden beds to poke around in. They sometimes eat their meals there, when they’re not sightseeing, hiking or exploring the caldera at leisure. He sometimes finds Lin reading a book with her feet propped up on the table, her slender legs tanning nicely.

He climbs the stairs and strips his clothes off, glancing toward the bed. Lin hasn’t moved. A mass of loose curls are visible and her slender fingers flex against the pillow. She sleeps well these days, longer than she ever used to while in the group. It’s a role reversal of sorts — he’s become the early bird, while Lin slumbers dreamlessly and only begins to stir when the street noise outside starts invading the thin walls of the apartment.

He places the muffin on her bedside table, just as he has done every day before and heads straight for the shower.

* * *

“I’m a builder,” the guy yells in an attempt to be heard above the pumping music. “That’s my day job, anyway. Saved for twelve months to be able to do this!”

“You been here long?” Wheeler yells back, leaning against the counter while they wait for the drinks.

“Been travelling for three weeks, now,” Adam replies, handing over a bunch of Euros and taking the tray. “We’re just planning on going with the flow… heading wherever the urge takes us, ya know. Bec really likes it here, so we’re more than prepared to chill here a little longer.”

“Nice.”

“What about you guys?”

“Uh… pretty much the same,” he says, grabbing Lin’s milky cocktail and following Adam out onto the deck. “We’ve been on the road for a couple of months. Li… uh, Rach has always wanted to come here.”

“Where’s your wife from? I can detect an accent —”

“Half German, half Latvian,” he says, because the cover stories are so well rehearsed in his head now that the performances are Academy Award worthy. “Girlfriend. We’re not married.”

“Better snap her up quick, man,” Adam says, grinning as the girls come into view, chatting amongst themselves. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Are the two of you —”

“Six months,” he replies. “Had a small, backyard wedding. Work was too busy. Took us this long to finally get a honeymoon in.”

Sinking down onto his deck chair, Wheeler passes the cocktail to Lin and she pauses her conversation long enough to give him a warm smile.

The four of them get to know one another. Adam’s a solid guy; thick set and broad across the chest with an easy, affable laugh. Wheeler discovers that they’re from Toronto. He tells them he’s from New York, because no amount of story-telling can detract from the thick Brooklyn accent he’s stuck with.

They’re a nice couple; down to earth and with no airs or graces. Adam’s wearing flip flops and the gaudiest pair of board shorts imaginable, and the bridge of his nose and forehead are practically glowing in the dark; burnt from the sun.

His wife is a hairdresser by trade; small and slender, with a pixie cut and bright green eyes. Bec seems very sweet natured and smiley, and Linka’s usual social butterflies are non-existent.

Although that could be due to the alcohol.

Before long, the girls are in the pool, splashing about and giggling like old friends, and the boys are knocking back drinks like there’s no tomorrow.

By two am, they depart the pool bar and pile into a taxi together, singing loudly the whole way back to Adam and Bec’s villa nearby. Lin is wobbly on her feet, and he has to heft her over his shoulder in order to negotiate the three flights of stairs. They’re invited to crash on the lounge together. There’s not a lot of room but they make it work, and Lin passes out on top of him, with her dress hiked up around her upper thighs and not a care in the world.

By the morning, she’s snoring softly with a random receipt stub stuck to her chest, and he’s got a splitting headache and a hangover that won’t quit…

And the four of them go back out and do it all again the following night… and the night after that.

* * *

They enjoy Adam and Bec’s company immensely, enough to meet up several times per week, galivanting around the island together; two couples with similar interests and personalities. They hike around the volcano and spend several days island hopping, exploring nearby Mykonos and Crete, sharing accomodation for the night before heading back on the ferry.

They eat out at nice restaurants, but more often, they stay in most nights. Lin cooks, happily bustling around the kitchen with Bec while the boys recline on the rooftop beneath the fairy lights, drinking beer and talking shit.

They don’t live in one another’s pockets, and for that, he’s thankful. It’s nice having a central base, and being able to establish roots somewhere, even though he knows that this can never be long term.

It’s too fucking expensive, and the cruise days often border on hectic.

But for now, it’s home.

They’ve had another long day, hanging out at a beach club on the other side of the island. The black sand isn’t much to write home about, but it’s free entry and there are lounge chairs available with a minimum drink spend, and they run through that pretty quickly.

They call it a night just after midnight, and it’s yet another occasion involving the man-handling of his girlfriend back to their apartment after dropping the others off first. Lin’s blathering about minor birds as he carries her inside, and he accidently collects her shoulder on the doorframe as they enter, but she’s too blitzed to notice.

She’s lost a shoe, and her hair is mussed up to such a degree that she looks quite wonton and provocative, and sexy as all hell. He briefly considers making a move, but she flops down onto the bed mid-sentence, looking peaceful and breathing deeply, and he decides against it.

His running streak continues the next morning, and this time, there’s an apple pastry waiting for her on the bedside table when she wakes.

* * *

The job is seasonal work, cash in hand.

It’s been a while since Lin’s software pinged an alert. He doesn’t want to lull himself into a false sense of security, but they have contingencies in place and all has been quiet, and they are beginning to realise that looking over their shoulder inhibits their ability to move forward.

The offer is made, and after careful discussion, Wheeler accepts.

He and Adam catch the ferry over to the mainland for a few days and work as farmhands, harvesting grapes. It’s repetitive, back-breaking work, but it pays good money, and the boys take full advantage. They leave the girls to their own devices, free to eat and swim and browse the shops together along the caldera.

The farm covers many sprawling acres, and the owner is a gregarious, portly gentleman with a moustache and a penchant for fine wines. He shows them around the distillery one evening, and the drums and wine barrels. He offers them a sample of the fermented product. It tastes like piss, and the look of disgust on Adam’s face probably mirrors his own.

The finished product tastes a lot better, bottled and corked and labelled. They depart with a couple of complimentary wines between them, and it’s eleven pm by the time he steps off the ferry and makes his way back to the apartment.

He hasn’t seen her in three days.

Dumping his bag, he climbs the stairs and finds her lying on her side with the sheets off, wearing just a pair of cotton panties. The window is open and the room is stiflingly hot.

He drops down beside her, kissing her neck and running a gentle hand down the center of her spine.

“Just me,” he breathes in her ear as she starts to stir. Blinking into wakefulness, she rolls over and winds her arms around his neck, pulling him close.

Her skin is hot and damp against his chest as she burrows into him with a sigh. She talks about the past few days, sleepy and content, but he’s distracted by her scent and her softness and has only one thing on his mind.

His fingers are already gliding over the soft curve of her waist and hip, before tangling into the cotton and stripping her panties away, and before long, they’re fucking hard; his mouth latched to her breast and her wrists pinned above her head.

They move together in a slick rhythm, until her cries turn thin and desperate. She comes just before he does, their bodies slippery with sweat as they regain their breath and recover their senses.

They take a moment to disentangle from one another, until she’s settled comfortably in the crook of his arm, tracing the firm lines of his abdominal muscles.

Neither feel the need to talk, because these days, they tend to communicate without the need for words.

It’s in the bleary afterglow of sex that he makes a decision, long after she’s fallen asleep beside him.

Because, after all, it’s been seven years of taking her for granted. Seven years; wasted on shameless flirting and longing glances. Seven years of finding a quiet contentment in the company of the girl forever beside him, and finally _with_ him.

Seven years of being intimidated by her intelligence and dazzled by her beauty… and now that he has her, life is so much better than he ever thought it could be.

It’s been six, blissful months together. Wheeler knows what he wants. He’s through with wasting time. He’s done with regret.

It won’t be another seven years before he makes the next move.

He won’t make that same mistake twice.

* * *

They’re having a quiet night in.

There’s an old movie playing on the little television, an eighties Brat Pack flick with Greek subtitles that are easy enough to ignore. They’re lolling about on the couch, eating chocolate and ignoring the dirty dishes piled up in the sink.

“Gettin’ real tanned there, babe,” Wheeler observes. He leans back, smoothing a hand over her slim legs, folded primly at the knees and curled across his lap. “Looks good on you.”

“You got burnt today,” she says, her eyes scanning his flushed face. A book is clutched against her chest, a murder mystery of some sort, and she peers closer at him. “Did you forget to put the lotion —”

“It puts the lotion on its skin,” he rasps, unable to help himself. “Or it gets the hose again —"

She laughs. “I do not know why you choose to reference these movie quotes. You know I have no idea —”

“Silence of the Lambs,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Buffalo Bill. Babe, this is gettin’ embarrassing —"

“Is that the man in the mask?”

”Nah, that’s Hannibal Lecter.”

“I’ll bet Mr Lecter did not end up with third degree burns from excessive sun exposure —”

“The guy gets off on rippin’ people’s faces off. I doubt he’d worry about it.”

She grins, taking a handful of Maltesers from the offered box. “Are you and Adam going back to Athens, tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’ve been offered more shifts.”

“You know you don’t have to,” she says softly, touching his face. “We are doing fine, money wise.”

“I know,” he says, reaching for her hand, yet his face betrays nothing. He and Adam have completed three days each week for the past two weeks, and he’s squirreled the money away, not letting on about its intended purpose. He shrugs, curling a finger around her hair. “Makes me feel useful.”

She smiles and says nothing more about it, knowing it’s pointless arguing.

“I found Gi today,” she says, almost conversationally, and he stares back at her dumbly.

“Whaddya mean, you found Gi?”

She gets to her feet and pads into the kitchenette, retrieving her computer and returning to the couch. She powers the laptop up and spends the next few minutes stuffing around in servers she probably shouldn’t be.

She pulls up the Korean Road Traffic Authority and uploads a set of details quickly, before passing the laptop over.

His mouth drops open, and he touches the screen in wonder.

“Aw geez,” he murmurs, sitting up properly and gazing at the pretty, dark haired girl staring back at him from the driver’s licence image on file. “You serious?”

“Her hair is longer.”

“Yeah,” he utters, surprised at the lump forming in his throat. “Oh man —"

“She went home,” Lin says softly. “Her new address is the same as her parents.”

“Did you find the others?”

She shakes her head, bringing up a screenshot. “They are harder to track. I could not find Ma-Ti, but I did find an article on Kwame.”

“That’s a head spin,” he says softly, noting the headline about a sustainability project the K-Man was leading in Kenya. The article is a few weeks old, and he stares at Kwame’s serious face amongst a team of earnest-looking men. He reads through the details with great interest, although the journalist concentrates more on the project rather than the man himself. “So weird to be seein’ their faces after all this time —"

“I have looked for Mishka, too. I cannot find him —”

“We were prepared for that, though,” he says. “We told him to disappear, just in case Kroi or anyone else came knockin’.”

“I know…”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Just feeling sentimental,” she says softly, dropping her cheek onto his shoulder. “It is hard, knowing we will never see them again.”

He bites his lip but says nothing. He hasn’t filled her in on the last conversation he ever had with Kwame. He doesn’t want to get her hopes up about a reunion, in case the unexpected happens and they have to decline the invitation.

“Do you think Gi is happy?”

“Yeah,” he says, slinging an arm across her shoulders. “I’m sure she’s askin’ the same question about you.”

“I wish I could make contact... I know I cannot, but —”

“So write her a letter?”

“A letter?” She stares back at him, confused. “What is the point if I cannot —"

“Doesn’t mean ya have to send ‘em, babe. Write her letters. Keep ‘em in a box. You never know…”

She climbs into his lap, looping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder, and he cuddles her back.

“What did I do to deserve you?” she says softly, raising her head and pressing her lips to his.

“You feed me. You put up with my bad jokes. You have sex with me regularly,” he chuckles, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Trust me, you’re doin’ _me_ all the favors.”

* * *

The shrill beep of the alarm sounds beside his head. Repeating the usual pattern of behaviour, he slams the stop button down and garners the necessary willpower to swing his legs out of bed. Yawning, he stretches his muscles, readying himself for the gruelling workout ahead.

He takes his usual route toward the caldera, slowing only for a construction crew making repairs on a crumbling corner and a couple of stray donkeys standing stubbornly in his path. He orders his coffee and sits in his usual spot, chatting to an older couple from the UK on holiday, who were up early and went for a walk — and were unable to find their way back to their accommodation.

Santorini is an awesome place to get lost in.

They wander off eventually, bidding him goodbye, and he stays until later, until mid – morning, when the cruise ship passengers are out in force and the shops are open and polishing their windows, readying themselves for the onslaught.

He doesn’t head back straight away, instead browsing the rows of boutique shops winding their way along the caldera. He does this for the next few days, working his way around until he finds exactly what he’s looking for.

He purchases two items and heads back to the apartment, grabbing an apricot Danish on the way.

She’s still asleep when he places a scented letter writing set on her bedside table, beside the pastry.

He hides the remaining object at the bottom of his suitcase where it waits, hidden from curious eyes and biding its time.

* * *

Lin writes to Gi once per week, in her usual neat, cursive handwriting, before sealing each letter in an envelope. At first, they sit in the front pocket of her suitcase, destined for nowhere, but she comes home one day with an ornate timber box, inlaid with mother of pearl and found in a little boutique store.

The letters are transferred to there, and before long, there are four letters sitting proudly within, each with the dates written at the top, which makes him roll his eyes.

“I should keep them in order,” she says defensively. “They will make no sense out of sequence!”

He calls her a nerd, and barely dodges the pen flung in his direction.

They’re lying in bed on another balmy night, waiting for the projected cool change to appear. He’s watching the television and not really paying attention, and she’s reading another book, a true crime novel about serial killers, of all things.

“Taking notes?”

“Detailed notes,” she smiles, turning the page slowly. “Very detailed.”

“Great,” he sighs, fingering the remote restlessly. He’s quiet and thoughtful today, two adjectives that usually don’t apply to him.

She glances up at him from above the pages. “Something is on your mind?”

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “You ever think about the fact we have nowhere to be?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re just driftin’.” He rolls over onto his side, smoothing a hand across her stomach, because it’s been on his mind this week. He regards her quietly, rubbing the gauzy fabric of her nightgown between his thumb and forefinger. “After this, Adam and Bec will eventually head back to Canada, since this is just a holiday for them. It’s not their _life_.”

“They have responsibilities…”

“That’s my point. Everyone here has a home to go to. Their time here is temporary. It’ll come to an end, and they’ll head back to their jobs and their families and barbeques and birthday parties… and we don’t have that luxury. We don’t _have_ a home anymore. We don’t technically belong anywhere.”

“I know…”

“Kinda feelin’ like the refugees we used to work with.”

“Does it bother you?”

“It’s on my mind,” he admits. “Can’t stay here forever.”

She runs her fingers through his hair, thinking it over for the longest time. He assumes the conversation is over and is already back to watching the television when he feels her shift closer to him. She cradles his head, guiding him close to her chest, her lips brushing his ear.

“My home is wherever you are, Yankee.”

He smiles at that. Nestling his face against her breasts, he closes his eyes, succumbing to the feel of her fingers still stroking idly through his scalp.

* * *

“Hold still,” she says, rubbing the peroxide into his hair. “We stripped the colour out of the towels the first time we did this, remember?”

“That place was a dive,” he retorts. “And in our defence, I think they already looked like that —"

She tuts quietly. “I do not want anything coming out of our bond.”

“Little off the top,” he says smartly. “Short back and sides. Just enough to spike up —”

 _“_ _Zatknis,”_ she says under her breath.

“ _Yebat' tebya_ ,” he retorts, secretly enjoying the aghast look on her face. “Yeah, that’s right, toots. I only ever remember the good stuff —"

Narrowing her eyes, Lin leans over and wraps her arms around his neck, whispering breathily into his ear. “Z _asranets.”_

“Don’t know that one.”

“Probably better that you don’t.”

“Ya gonna give me a clue?”

“It involves an unpleasant bodily function.”

“Aw honey…” he sighs, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I always look forward to our Blight-inspired bi-monthly cut and colours.”

“Red hair accounts for just two percent of the population, Yankee. The point is to keep you hidden —”

“The point is I look like an eighties boy band reject —"

“And I have a man whose carpet does not match the drapes, but you do not hear me complaining.”

He bursts out laughing. Wiping his eyes, he grins back at Lin, aware that she’s been coming out with some real pearlers, lately. “Oh, that’s cold, babe.”

“I remember you using that phrase many years ago.” Resting her hands on his shoulders, she kisses his cheek and grins wickedly at him in the mirror. “I did not know what it meant at the time. I always remembered it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Twenty minutes,” she says as she leaves the bathroom, heading downstairs.

“You’re a pain in my ass, girl,” he calls as she disappears.

“I know, _moya lyubov_.”

* * *

They’re all plastered.

Their group of four has swelled to twelve, having befriended a group of z-grade Irish footballers at a bar in Fira. These guys can drink anybody under the table, and Wheeler doesn’t even try to keep up.

Regardless, he’s pretty smashed himself and finding it hard to understand what the fuck they’re saying. He can make out ‘jay-sus’ a lot, followed by a lot of nonsensical gibberish, since these guys barely pause for breath before launching into the next expletive-ridden tirade.

Adam has a full audience and is demonstrating a range of disco dance moves that would make John Travolta cringe in embarrassment, while Bec looks on with an unimpressed look on her face. There’s a red-eyed, bleary-looking man talking earnestly to Lin. The dude is wobbly on his feet and leering somewhat, and Wheeler stands back and watches it all unfold, amused as always.

It used to happen a lot as Planeteers, yet it really only bothered him in the final two years in the group, when he came close to putting a couple of guys through plate glass windows or fire-bombing their asses homeward.

Easy to do when you overhear the sexual innuendo and ‘locker room’ talk at her expense, and the vulgar language flowing.

Lin’s looking gorgeous, clad in a black floaty dress that skims her upper thighs, and her hair is styled in a sideways French braid that makes her look very bohemian. His head swells with pride every time she returns to him, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her forehead on his chest, wanting him near.

Another round of drinks flow, and before long, there are twenty odd people amongst them, all staggering out of the bar and spilling out into the night, singing Bon Jovi songs at the top of their lungs. They walk for quite a while, but eventually, the crowd thins out and a few members of the pack disappear.

After ten minutes of walking aimlessly, they have a close encounter. Wheeler lurches to a stop, feeling generally befuddled but knowing something’s coming, hearing the steady clip-clop of hooves and the dull thunk of cow bells getting louder. He turns to Adam, gesturing in the direction of the bulky shapes emerging from the shadows.

“What the hell —"

A pack of donkeys trot around the corner and seem just as surprised to see them. The animals take off quickly, barrelling through them, bucking in fright, and people start diving in all directions, including Adam who hits the ground hard.

One little horned bastard leaps past and collects Wheeler’s legs out from under him, and he ends up on his ass in the grassy verge, winded as Linka totters between the animals in her high heels, shrieking loudly, a bar drink still clutched in her hands.

They pass in a cloud of dust, disappearing into a field with a broken fence line, and the group pick themselves up and continue on, looking worse for wear.

More voices fade into the night as the group breaks up again, some heading in different directions. Linka has by now lost another shoe, and she limps along beside Bec, their fingers threaded together and their arms swinging between them.

They move along the winding roads, cresting downhill and find themselves on a straight stretch of road with the beach on one side and more bars on the left. The remainder of the footballers disappear into one of the clubs, evidently to drink until they’re near paralytic, and soon it’s just the four of them… and then Adam and Bec are no longer around and they find themselves alone.

He follows Lin over the road and onto the beach, toward the sound of water lapping along the shore. It’s deserted at this time of night, and the place is littered with rubbish from tourists that has washed up nearby.

She’s still carrying her empty wine glass, the stem balanced between her fingers. Unsteady on her feet, she weaves her way through the black sand, still singing Bon Jovi and completely massacring the lyrics as per usual.

There’s a secluded spot hidden from view near the cliffs, an alcove of sorts. Dropping down, she flops onto her back and grins up at him, spreadeagled, moving her arms and legs back and forth in the damp sand.

“What am I?”

“Drunk?”

“A star fish!” she giggles, still flapping her limbs. “See!”

“Really?”

“I stole this,” she says, arching her back and shoving the glass toward him. “Criminal…”

“Regular law breaker.”

She holds her wrists out. “Arrest me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he chuckles, moving her bare foot into his lap and massaging it gently. “You’ve lost another shoe, babe.”

“I know.”

“You startin’ a left foot collection I don’t know about?”

“Iss gone.” Lin closes her eyes, mumbling something else he can’t make out. She tries to sit up and seems to give up halfway through, sinking back down into the sand again.

“Dizzy,” she sighs. “Where are we?”

“Fucked if I know,” he laughs.

He runs his gaze over her, over the ripe curves of her body, and her smooth thighs gleaming in the moonlight. The straps of her dress are hanging from her shoulders, exposing the slender length of her neck, and wisps of hair have escaped her braid, framing her face prettily.

“I love your hair like that,” he says, smoothing his thumb under the arch of her foot in a manner that makes her sigh with pleasure. “You look like a Scandinavian Viking princess.”

“Not as fierce, though.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I am frightened of everything.”

“No, you’re not.” Crawling forward, he slides his body over hers, lowering his head and nuzzling her nose gently. "You beat guys up with saucepans. Crash tackle creeps to the ground.”

"That is true..."

"Knee robbers in the balls in hotel stairwells. Seduce pimple-faced pharmacists in order to score free drugs... Ultimate badass.”

He kisses her, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb, and the resulting smile she gives lights up his world.

“Rebecca did my hair,” she whispers, touching the loose tendrils before resting her hand above her breast. Her face is calm and serenely beautiful, and the impulse hits him hard.

This is not going to go down the way he planned. He doesn’t even have the ring with him, but the moment feels right nonetheless. There are no nerves, and he acts on sheer intuition, a trait that has always served him well over the years.

Taking hold of Lin’s wrists, he pulls her into a sitting position and lifts her into his lap. She settles against him, and he runs his finger along the base of her throat, tracing the chain he’d bought her in Tijuana, just before their lives had been upturned in a hail of gunfire and SAIP-related madness.

It seems like it was years ago, not merely a matter of six months.

He cradles her in his arms, pressing his mouth to her cheek and staring at the dark waves crashing gently on the shore, feeling more at peace than he has for a while. There are several beer cans lying discarded nearby, and he reaches for an aluminium ring pull half buried beside them.

“Marry me?” he breathes against her ear, and she tilts her face toward his, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open in surprise.

“What did you say —”

“You heard me,” he says, taking her hand and slipping the makeshift ring onto her finger, up to the knuckle where it refuses to budge any further. “Marry me.”

She stares back at him in wonder. A huge grin slowly spreads across her face, and she nods, unable to hide her excitement — or her tears, for that matter. They slip down her cheeks and she wipes them away quickly, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Yes,” she bursts out, halfway between laughing and crying. She flings her arms around his neck, her voice echoing loudly along the beach. “Yes, I will. Yes!”

He shoves her back against the sand and kisses her hard, his tongue probing her mouth, and the rest of the night is a complete blur of hastily rearranged clothing and two acts of public indecency. When it’s all over, they sit and watch the sun rise together before getting blearily to their feet and making their way home, sleeping solidly until well after lunch time.

Forgoing the usual daily run, he does force himself up before she wakes. Dropping down to the bakery, he grabs her a bag of biscotti and leaves it on the bedside table, beside an eighteen-carrot white gold princess-cut diamond ring, housed in a plush white box with the lid resting open.

* * *

They elope three weeks later, on a windswept vista overlooking the Aegean, with Adam and Bec acting as witnesses — relative strangers in reality, but the closest things they have to friends right now.

He’s dressed in a white collared shirt and beige chinos, and Lin’s wearing a cotton and lace cocktail dress she found in a boutique the week before, crisp white with a satin lining. Her hair is styled in a messy sideways half-braid, held together with pins at the base, and adorned with dusky-rose blossoms with accents of baby’s breath.

The whole event is low maintenance and low key, and utterly perfect.

He remembers how vibrantly green her eyes were as they stood facing one another, and the length of her dark lashes, and how flawless her skin looked under a light layer of make-up. He remembers her hands trembling in his when a curious crowd gathered nearby, and how he stepped closer to her when the nerves started getting the better of her.

He remembers tilting her chin and pressing his mouth to hers when the celebrant pronounced them man and wife, and the spontaneous applause from random onlookers that broke out around them as a result.

He remembers bidding goodbye to Adam and Bec the same afternoon, knowing the couple had already overstayed their time and were heading off the next morning to London. He remembers swapping contact details, knowing one of the exchanged addresses will lead to nothing but disappointment and a trail of dead ends, but also knowing that this is the way it has to be.

But his favorite memory is the final one, and her complete shock when he takes her ‘home’… not back to the cramped little apartment, but to a villa built into the cliff at the top of the caldera, complete with a pool and spectacular views of the ocean.

It’s the last wish he grants her while here, an idea drawn from the drunken ramblings of a shy girl in a moonlit lake, one shaped and grown and moulded in ways he never would have imagined.

She’s utterly speechless and starts to cry, realising he’s had all their belongings transferred on the sly. They spend a glorious four nights here, swimming and relaxing, and doing things that married couples generally do on their honeymoons… and a few things they probably don’t.

Deckchairs are amazingly adaptable pieces of furniture, after all.

And it’s here that they decide to move on, making preparations for their next destination.

* * *

“Have you seen my shaver?”

“No?” she calls back.

Wheeler tuts, stuffing his suitcase to within an inch of its life. “Think we’re gonna need more bags.”

Lin emerges from the bathroom, her arms laden with toiletries and clothing. She packs them all neatly, arranging them with Tetris-type skill. “If you folded your belongings, you would be able to fit more in.”

“Old wives tale,” he retorts.

“Messy sloth,” she says good naturedly.

“Nagging shrew,” he replies, smacking her on the ass as she passes. “You got the passports?”

“Yes,” Lin frowns, gesturing toward the unseemly pile of clothes and the tattered tee shirt sitting on top. “I thought you were going to throw that away?”

“That’s my favourite —”

“It is ripped down the side!”

“Adds character.”

“You might as well be naked…”

“Take me as I am, ripped tee shirts and all.”

“You are so stubborn,” she mutters.

“You married me,” he laughs. “For better or for worse, apparently.”

“For better,” she says, ruffling his hair. “What time is the transfer?”

“Four o’clock. We leavin’ here at three?”

“Yes,” she sighs, sinking down onto the bed beside him. Pulling the ballet flats off her feet, she flexes her toes, staring at the weave pattern embedded in her skin. “My feet are all puffy again.”

“Again?” He peers down and regards her feet with mild alarm. They’re swollen badly, the skin stretched taut, as are her ankles. “From the heat?”

“Maybe,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “They are aching.”

“Probably just retaining water, babe,” he says. “Maybe have a swim before we go?”

“Do you remember the last time I had my period?” she asks softly, running a hand through her hair as she gazes at him, and the question stops him in his tracks. He stands frozen for a moment, clutching a jacket between his fingers before dropping it on top of his suitcase and taking a seat beside her.

He reaches for her hand, rubbing her fingers gently, noting they’re also looking fluid-filled and swollen. “Uh... No. I don’t remember.”

“Neither do I…”

* * *

The international departure lounge houses two pharmacies, and after fifteen minutes, they find one that has the product they’re looking for. He stands with the hand luggage beside a duty-free perfume store while Lin dashes to the bathroom.

It’s a nervous wait, and he finds his gaze drawn to the families wandering around the terminal, with their over-tired, cranky kids and stressed out parents waiting for flights… and wondering if he’s about to join the paternity club.

She emerges from the bathroom after a few minutes, walking briskly toward him, with a folded wad of toilet paper in her hands.

“What does it —”

“I did not wait to find out,” she says as they head toward their departure lounge. “I peed and ran back out.”

Finding a quiet corner, he dumps their bags and settles down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. Lin follows, taking a seat between his legs with the erstwhile sticks clutched in her hands. “Five minutes, I think the package said…”

“You _think_?”

“The instructions were in Greek…”

“Why are there two?”

“I wanted to be sure.”

“Oh.” He squints, staring hard, but can’t see anything of note. “Gimme a look?”

“Oh, this is not very sanitary —" she begins as he takes both pregnancy tests from her hands and inspects the panels carefully.

“We’re probably worryin’ about nothin,” he says. “I can only see one line —"

“Do not let anyone see —”

“No one cares, babe —"

“I cleaned them,” she says earnestly. “Before I brought them out —"

“You’re seriously worried about that right now?”

“I am worried that our birth control has controlled nothing —”

”I thought they were designed to give you a false period?”

”I have not bled at all on them lately... that is my point!“

“Honey, it’s a pregnancy scare. It happens. We’ll be back to drinkin’ tequila and you’ll be vomitin’ on my shoes in no time —”

“I had not even thought about it... or even considered the fact that I might have —”

“Let’s just wait until we have the facts before…”

He trails off, staring hard at the small litmus panels, because the facts are already becoming apparent.

A second line has formed ever so faintly, first in one window, then the other, gradually gaining definition until they’re clear as day; unmistakable and undeniable, glaringly evident in both tests.

He stares numbly at the results, feeling a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. “That’s what I think it is, right?”

Lin moves a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears.

They sit there, stunned, processing the magnitude of the moment and what it means. A missed period is an indicator. One test is a possibility. Two is a certainty. He knows it, and he suspects Lin does too.

Wheeler is dumbfounded.

They have yet to raise the topic of having kids. It has never come up in conversation. They’ve been married barely a week, and she would surely have to be at least a month along to show a positive result.

And that’s at the very least… it’s possible she might even be further.

He lets out a heavy breath, knowing their current circumstances are not at all conducive toward raising children.

Not with murder contracts and crazed scientists and being homeless and all.

And then there’s the realisation that trumps them all… that she’s pregnant with his child.

He’s going to be a father.

Linka hasn’t said a word. Her face has gone deathly pale and she sits stiffly in his arms, clutching his thigh with a vice-like grip and sniffling quietly.

“We don’t do things by halves, do we,” he says eventually, tucking a loose tendril behind her ear. “It’s all or nothin’ with us.”

Lin lets out an unexpected laugh, wiping away more tears. She curls up against him, resting her cheek against his chest and closing her eyes.

“What do we do?” she asks, her voice small and frightened.

“We’ll get you checked out properly once we touch down in Thailand, hon,” he says, doing his best to reassure her. “Don’t stress. We’ve made it this far. We’ll work it out. We always do.”

She nods, her face still pale and wan. Eventually, he slides his arms around her, resting his hands on her lower stomach; still flat and taut... for the moment. Her hands slide over his, and together they cradle the life already growing inside her, the one they were neither planning nor expecting.

They wait in silence, contemplating impending parenthood until their flight is called over the loudspeaker. He helps her up and they wait in line, showing their tickets at the gate and heading down the gangway, their arms wrapped around one another’s waists.

One destination, two passports and three heartbeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big, big, big thank you to everyone who has been reviewing. I appreciate your words more than you will ever know.
> 
> Trivia: the timber box Linka buys to store Gi's letters is the same one Wheeler later keeps their photos and keepsakes in from Only Shadows Ahead.


	17. Threefold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s late, guys! Hope it was worth the wait xxx

The first time Wheeler sees the vehicle, he slows to a jog, catching his breath and glancing at the hire car, taking note of the finer details. The tyres crunch along the gravel, weaving through the light foot traffic wandering along the Koh Samui streets. The windows are darkened, and the car appears brand new: sleek silver amongst the banged-up local taxis and bikes bustling around.

It’s enough to make him take notice.

He stands on the corner with a towel draped around his shoulders and a water bottle in his hand, hidden behind a street cart piled high with beaded jewellery. The car circles past the market road and disappears around the corner…. and he’s not sure if the scent of lavender is in his head, or thick and acrid in his nostrils.

The second time, they’re on the northern end of Chaweng beach. He’s left Lin alone in the shallow water, seated contentedly on a low collapsible chair, with a book clutched in one hand and an empty soft drink in the other.

He’s drumming his fingers on the timber bar, waiting for her drink to arrive when he spots the car again. It passes his field of vision and crawls to a stop about fifty metres down the shoreline.

Wheeler raises his head, staring at the two men who eventually step out, clad in matching Ray-Ban sunglasses, white cotton shirts and dress pants. They walk purposefully toward the local council building, and Wheeler can’t shake the feeling of unease as he grabs the Sprite and heads back to his wife, glancing over his shoulder warily.

The third time he sees them, alarm bells start ringing.

It’s five in the afternoon, and he’s grabbing supplies for dinner, mentally checking off one ingredient after the other while moving slowly through the market crowd.

He spots a man in a rumpled white shirt talking to a market vendor, clutching a clipboard in his hand with paper attached, gesturing toward whatever is printed there. Not even ten minutes later, he sees another guy with a handful of papers, having stopped several shoppers from going about their business.

The shoppers peer down, seeming to inspect something before shaking their heads and moving on, and crinkled white shirt guy carries on through the crowd, stopping a group of giggling teenagers and repeating the same task… with the same response.

Something’s not right.

_They’re lookin’ for someone._

A cold chill runs down Wheeler’s spine.

The list of food and vegetables in his pocket is already forgotten.

Wheeler turns on his heel and strides out. Once onto the street, he breaks into a run, moving swiftly through the pathways and winding his way through the rickety raised walkways, leaping over the rotting sections until he finds their little timber shack by the water.

He bursts inside and finds Lin at the rudimentary kitchen stove, slicing steak into thin slivers. She turns and smiles; a piece of celery dangling from between her teeth and her hair still wet from the shower.

“Did you get the —"

“I think we’re blown.”

“What?” she asks, startled, her face losing colour. “What do you mean?”

“Two guys,” he says, already gathering their stuff together. “Third time I’ve seen ‘em. They were lookin’ for someone —”

“For who? Did you see —”

“Didn’t get close enough to ask —"

“Are you sure they were looking for _us_?”

Lin lurches toward her computer in a panic and opens the tracing program, peering at the dots blinking on the screen and running her finger over them. “I do not see anyone even remotely close? Kroi is in Uganda. Dumbrov has been incarcerated for six months and even Plunder and Bleak —”

“They looked official, babe,” he says, heading toward their bedroom and pulling the clothes from the hangers. “Maybe diplomatic. We’re trackin’ criminals, not bureaucrats. Could be nothin’, but I just don’t wanna leave it to chance.”

“But we have only been here for a week?” She follows him in, looking bewildered as clothes start flying. “Our appointment —” she starts, glancing around uncertainly, her hand already moving to her belly. “We have been waiting… what about tomorrow —”

“First item on the agenda after we move on. I promise.”

“Are you sure we need to go?”

“I dunno,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair before dragging the empty suitcases down from the top of the wardrobe. “I just… it doesn’t feel right. _They_ don’t feel right. I think we gotta go —”

“But what if they are not here for _us_?” she asks tearfully.

Lin stands in the center of the cramped bedroom, the celery still clutched in her hand. The leafy stalks dangle uselessly against her thigh, and the grief-stricken look on her face makes him pause.

Wheeler drops the luggage and pulls her into his arms with a heavy sigh, breathing in the scent of vanilla and berries rising from her hair and skin.

“What if they _are_ here for us _,_ honey?”

She nods, her eyes lowered and tears already forming on the end of her lashes. He kisses her eyelids and her nose, and she bumps her forehead against his chest, resigned to the fact they’ve been here barely a week and have to move on again.

“All right,” she whispers. She wipes her eyes and nods, steeling herself.

They break apart, moving to opposite ends of the shack, working quickly and quietly, gathering everything they have.

They’re packed up in fifteen minutes. They leave what they can’t carry. Wheeler hails a cab and they pile inside with their bags, huddled together in the backseat as they head toward the airport.

It’s now dark, and the lights from the shops and bars whiz past the windows, casting a soft glow over her features as she stares sadly at the dinner crowds wandering the streets.

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he pulls her toward him, pressing a hard kiss to her temple as they head out into the night, and back into the unknown that awaits them.

“I’m sorry, babe. I just don’t wanna leave it to chance.”

“I know.”

“Not with lil’ peanut takin’ up squatter rights in your uterus. I got both of you to think about, now —”

“But we still do not have confirmation —”

“Babe,” he deadpans, grinning, “you puked your guts out last night slicin’ raw chicken. You have a hankerin’ for pickles and mayonnaise. I think it’s a sure thing.”

She chuckles, glancing down at the timber box of letters clutched against her stomach. “Something else to write about,” she sighs, leaning her head against his chest and closing her eyes. “Something else to add to a box of memories no one will never see.”

“I know.”

“We just keep running,” she whispers, wiping her eyes. “Further away. They know nothing of what has happened…”

He knows Lin needs something now. Something to keep her going. Something else to look forward to, because the last couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride of mammoth proportions. She’s ridden the wild highs and lows with her trademark dignity and quiet determination… but Lin needs something else, now.

She needs hope.

“We can tell them ourselves,” he says finally. “If all goes to plan…”

She glances up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

And he finally tells her, of the agreement made between himself and Kwame on that final day. The location. The date and the time.

A slow grin transforms her face. She listens, enthralled as the details are laid bare.

The reunion.

The twelfth of September.

* * *

The hospital in Phuket is surprisingly modern and clean, and the attending doctor takes the required bloodwork and asks the requisite questions, and has her pee on another stick, producing the same result, only stronger.

The physician recommends an ultrasound examination, since the blood results will take at least a week to arrive.

Linka is given two bottles of water to drink, and they’re eventually led to a small waiting room with an assortment of tattered magazines strewn throughout. It’s another hour before they’re ushered inside a small room with a portable trolley and a monitor propped on top

Linka’s bladder is no doubt already fit to burst by the time she hoists herself up onto the examination table, clutching his hand nervously as she lies down. He takes a seat by her head, watching the radiologist pull rubber gloves on and squirt clear gel on the pads, explaining in broken English what’s about to happen.

He watches Lin squirm with discomfort as the lubricated paddles are moved over her lower abdomen, searching for the right spot before being jammed roughly against her internal organs.

The process keeps repeating for the next fifteen minutes. Linka’s face is taut and her eyes are squeezed shut, the sharp intake of breath unmistakable with each movement.

It’s not the pleasant experience he’d imagined or had seen in movies: visions of happy couples gazing adoringly at a monitor as the doctor performs the ultrasound with gentle, caring hands.

By contrast, this is rough and at times painful, and Linka is biting her lip hard enough to draw blood by the time it’s all over. They can’t see a fucking thing — just the technician’s back for what seems like an eternity, obscuring the equipment as he does his thing, taking what looks like measurements and making notes.

The technician eventually leaves the room without saying a word, leaving them alone. Wheeler leans over and cradles her pale, upside down face in his hands, kissing her forehead, nose and lips.

“You okay?”

She nods, burying her face against his neck and breathing out the tension from her body. He folds his arms across Linka’s chest with a frustrated grunt, wishing the dude had at least given them a definitive answer before dashing out.

Was he conferring with his colleagues? Discussing the best way to pass on whatever bad news was coming their way? It would certainly fit with the events of the last eight months. He racks his brain, considering the possibilities.

Hormonal imbalance.

False negatives.

Ectopic pregnancy

No heartbeat.

They’ve psyched themselves up for this. Once the shock had worn off, reality had set in, followed by a calm sense of acceptance... and anticipation.

_Lil’ peanut._

Wheeler’s gaze travels down Lin’s body as she lies prone on the table; her bare stomach, still glistening in spots from the gel. Further still, the white linen skirt sitting low over her hips and the swollen ankles peeking out from beneath the hem.

His eyes finally settle on the small monitor by her feet, and an image frozen on the monitor captures his attention. A definitive oval-shaped shadow has been captured on the screen, and a white shape is contained within.

Head, body and legs. He can just make out what he thinks is an arm, raised in the air, like the little guy was mid-way through a high five or a fist pump before being rudely interrupted.

He stares in wonder, oblivious to Lin’s grumbles as she adjusts her skirt and pulls her singlet back down, lamenting her need to pee for the umpteenth time.

“Babe,” he says softly, helping her into a sitting position. He nods toward the monitor, and she stares too, her full bladder forgotten.

“Oh,” she whispers, shuffling down the bed to get a closer look, mesmerized. “ _Oh, golubka_ …”

Neither of them look away for the longest time. He bites his lip, feeling emotional, and Linka wipes a tear away, but she’s smiling all the same.

The attendant returns, and he catches the first few details before his mind starts wandering, leaving an earnest Linka to pick up the missing pieces.

Gestation is roughly eleven weeks.

Due date in early March.

Strong heartbeat.

The rest of the information is lost in translation.

Because he can see his child for the first time.

 _Their_ child.

_Theirs._

The knowledge resonates strongly within him.

They own nothing but a diamond ring, a couple of wedding bands and six months’ worth of purchases. They will eat tonight using someone else’s utensils. Retire to a weekly rental property containing someone else’s furniture. They’ll travel from place to place in someone else’s vehicle, and will continue to live their lives using someone else’s identity.

Fucking karma train.

But karma is a strange thing. Perhaps fate has led them in a direction they’re meant to go. Eleven weeks’ worth of cells have formed; two sets of DNA combining to make something that is demonstratively _theirs._

Blight can’t take that away. He’d like to see her fucking try.

It’s sheer, unadulterated pride that swells deep within him, and he vows to do everything in his power to protect the two of them.

Because he owes this little guy the best head start possible in life.

* * *

They sit at a beach bar on the northern end of Patong Beach, cuddling together on an oversized bean bag in the shade of a large umbrella. He’s drinking a beer, and Lin’s Coke without ice is gathering condensation in the heat of the day. She still remains mortified at the thought of consuming all that wine throughout the early stages of the first trimester, before their little secret came to the fore.

Blending in seems easier in Phuket.

Why they keep choosing beachside destinations is beyond him, but he supposes that they have yet to establish a life and a proper base, and they’re still technically hiding, so why the hell not hang out in relative comfort?

Lin is sixteen weeks along now, and only just starting to show. She seems fascinated at the changes in her body. Even now, reclined comfortably against Wheeler’s chest and dozing, her hand often drifts down, settling protectively over her bump. The morning sickness has been passable, but the tiredness has been extreme.

She tends to take a nap every afternoon. He often finds her passed out on the small sofa, or curled up in bed with the fan circulating above. There’s a quiet contentment in her mannerisms, having accepted the situation with her usual grace and humility.

The latest ultrasound image is clutched between his thumb and forefinger. He taps it against his thigh, glancing at it every now and then.

He could swear the kid is giving him the finger.

“Sneaky lil’ peanut.”

“Avocado,” Lin mumbles, repositioning herself and fanning her face with the menu. “Size of an avocado, remember.”

“Cookin’ away all that time,” he muses. “Lil dude just goin’ about his business —”

“Dude?”

He shrugs, nuzzling her cheek and giving her a wry smile. “Bettin’ on a boy.”

Linka smiles at that. She opens her eyes, gazing out toward the ocean, watching the waves sweeping gently over the sand. She looks relaxed; more at peace now with the events of the last six weeks. Time has given them both some perspective, as well as the opportunity to get used to the new situation.

“Tired,” she mumbles. Rolling over, Lin snuggles into the crook of his arm and flops an arm across his chest. “Sucking the energy out of me.”

“Yeah, but your boobs are lookin’ mighty fine,” he muses, trailing his fingers over the enlarged swell of her breasts and making her shiver. “Gotta look at the positives.”

“Pervert.”

“I’m a guy,” he says, nuzzling her temple and smiling. “One track mind.”

“Do you think they will come?”

“Hmm?”

Lin sighs, running her touch down his arm. “September. Do you think they will come?”

“Yeah.”

“There will be three of us by then…”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He chuckles, stroking her arm lazily. “Still wrappin’ my head around that one.”

“Do you think they have changed?”

“I think we all have.”

“What if we cannot go?”

Wheeler closes his eyes. “Then we cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose.”

Lin props herself up on one elbow. She peers down at him with a loving smile, nuzzling his nose, her face flushed with heat and dampened with sweat along her hairline. She presses her mouth to his, kissing him softly before resettling on his chest.

They lie quietly, until the waves crashing on the beach and the kids shrieking in the sand nearby becomes lost to the distant vacuum of white noise.

* * *

It’s the fourth job he’s talked himself into. Lin says he’s got a talent for sniffing out work.

Really though, he’s just an extrovert with awesome people skills. But he’s good with his hands and he knows a thing or two from a mechanical perspective, and it seems like enough for companies who are short on casual staff.

He mainly works for overseas contractors and international construction firms, because the local projects pay peanuts in comparison, and are certainly not keeping up with standard building codes and OHS regulations.

He’s still astounded at the dodgy electrical wiring above their heads in the main tourist areas, particularly in Patong. Mass amounts of tangled cabling running in all directions. Occasionally, he’ll spot a lone Joe Nobody on a ladder with no safety equipment, working his way through the conduits, making repairs when his Aunty loses power to her restaurant.

It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so downright dangerous.

The expat teams are easy enough to spot: They knock off at five PM and head to the bar for a drink (or five), still clad in their fluoro high vis shirts. He runs into them one night whilst he and Lin are grabbing a meal out, and he spends the next few hours chatting about their experiences here and their contracts, as well as the day to day duties undertaken.

They’re friendly enough and keen to introduce him to their site manager.

And so, Lin sits tonight at her computer; her rounded belly already starting to prod the edge of the dining table. She falsifies a few records and qualifications online, and the start of Wheeler’s engineering career begins.

* * *

“Seems like a decent guy,” Wheeler says, sinking down onto his chair and taking the offered plate from Lin’s hands. “Third time I’ve worked with him this week.”

“What does he do again?”

“Construction, here for a few months, overseein’ the work on some fancy new tunnel. They’re just about finished.”

“Is he connected with our neighbor —”

“Nah,” he replies, motioning toward the shack next door with his fork. “Drew is in fiber-optics, I think. Telecommunications. Chris is a structural engineer.”

“Sounds technical,” she says, disappearing back inside, and he hears her bustling around. 

“Yeah. Surprised I could keep up,” he remarks. “Was interesting, actually. Those guys know a shit-tonne about dirt.”

“And you know a tonne about shit.” Lin emerges with her own plate and a bottle of water.

“True.”

They’ve settled in Chalong Bay, a non-touristy area with a village feel.

They’re in good company, surrounded mostly by both friendly locals and expats from other countries, all working on short-term contracts. There’s a community vibe here — mostly singles sharing the mud-brick homes, however there are a few families living amongst them, which pleases Lin no end.

The mosquitoes are the most unpleasant thing about living here… along with the lack of air conditioning on humid nights such as these.

“Met the CEO today. Dude did an unannounced site inspection and scared the crap out of the contractors.”

“Where is he from?”

“New Zealand,” he says through a mouth full of food. “Guy can talk underwater with a mouth full of marbles. Ended up ditchin’ him after the third round of scotch he shoved down my —”

“I hope you did not offend —"

“Meh,” he says, shrugging. “Told him I’d take him out for _fesh and chups_ on the weekend —"

She appears aghast. “You mocked his accent? Yankee, you are honestly —”

“Gentle ribbin’, babe,” he laughs. “Gentle ribbin’. Two hours discussin’ business development crap is enough to —”

“Crap?”

“I zoned out at the finer details,” he admits.

“Why am I not surprised.” His wife holds her own plate with one hand and grabs the arm rest of her chair with the other, lowering herself awkwardly. Her flimsy nightgown falls from her shoulder, exposing the strap of the satin slip she’s wearing. “You know you have the attention span of a goldfish?”

“You know your belly enters the room like ten minutes before the rest of you?”

“Shut up, Yankee,” she retorts, smirking as he slops food down the front of his shirt. “At least I can feed myself.”

“I don’t have the luxury of a built-in tray table,” he laughs, eyeing the beautifully rounded belly propping the food up.

“Six months and I already look like I have swallowed a beach ball.” She winces, holding her plate steady. “Our _malysh_ has been quite active, today.”

“Little guy’s gonna be a soccer player.”

“You are still sure it is a boy?”

“Just a feelin’,” he says. “Is he kickin’ you or somethin’?”

“Just movement,” she says, smiling. “Sometimes, it feels like the flutter of butterfly wings.”

Wheeler has no clue what butterfly wings feel like, but he imagines it to be quite pleasant. They sit in a comfortable silence for a while, eating their meat and salad under the fading light outside.

“They’re lookin’ for mechanical tradesmen,” he says eventually, dropping his plate to the floor. “Excavating, boring. Tunnelling. People with mechanical skills. Chris said he moved up to corporate pretty quick.”

“You were offered a job?”

“Kind of,” Wheeler admits, running a hand through his hair. “Uh… yeah.”

“Where?”

“Back at their head office in Auckland.”

Linka swallows her mouthful of food, considering his words. “What are your thoughts, _moya lyubov’_?”

“It’s good money. We won’t be floundering in a country where we don’t speak the language. It’s on the other side of the world, away from the Doctor Demented and her asshole buddies.” He smiles, jabbing his fork in her direction. “Decent hospitals and health care. I’m told it’s like Canada… but you know. Without the grizzly bears.”

Linka looks pensive. “New Zealand?”

“It’s an option. He’s willin’ to sponsor us for a visa. Might need you to run some online interference, though. Add me to some databases and fudge a few more qualifications that I might have embellished —”

“Would this be wise?” she asks, placing her own plate on the ground and pushing herself to her feet, arching her back and stretching out the kinks in her muscles. “I do not want you injuring yourself or biting off more that you can eat —”

“Chew, ya moron,” he grins, beckoning her over. “And I’m pretty confident.”

“I know you are,” she laughs, taking his offered hand and sinking down into his lap. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his nose. “Confidence has never been an issue for you.”

“Could be a decent start for us, hon.”

“I know,” she says, her breath warm and sweet on his skin.

He rests his hand over her belly, firm and round beneath his palms. “Maybe this is the opportunity we need to get ourselves and Peanut settled before we’re up to our elbows in dirty diapers and sleepless nights.”

“It would be nice to have somewhere to call home.”

“I don’t want you havin’ the baby here,” he admits. “I want you in a proper hospital with decent facilities and health care.”

“All right.”

“All right?” He cuddles her close, nibbling her earlobe. “So we doin’ this?”

Lin nods, pressing her forehead to his with a grin. “Yes.”

“We movin’?” he repeats, tickling her under the arms as she throws her head back, squirming delightedly. “We really doin’ this?”

Yes!” she gasps, holding on for dear life as he hefts her into his arms and staggers to his feet, carrying her inside and kicking the door closed behind them. “Yes, we are doing this!”

“Am I doin’ you, too?”

“If you can find a suitable position,” she giggles helplessly, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Access to my lady parts is getting more and more difficult —”

“I’ll make it work.”

“What about the plates —” she gasps, as he heaves her into the bedroom and drops her down onto the bed. “We cannot leave them out —”

“Damn right we can,” he mutters, ripping her shirt open impatiently and popping buttons in his haste. He ducks his head, licking and sucking her swollen breasts, and the low moan she utters reverberates right through him.

The dishes are all but forgotten.

* * *

It’s the fourth property they’ve inspected this week.

It’s a new build: a modern single storey, four-bedroom home with a small backyard in a leafy, tree-lined street. The development itself is a couple of years old, but Wheeler suspects that the empty block was purchased with the original land release and the owners sat on it for a year or two, before being resold and built upon.

The paint is barely dry. The scaffolding and fencing is still up and the landscaping has yet to be completed, but the developer is intent on lining his ducks up in a row, wanting tenants in as soon as the house passes council certification.

He’s not blind. He can see from Lin’s face that she’s fallen in love with it. One of the back bedrooms seems to capture her attention. Lin stands framed in the doorway, seeming to mentally manoeuvre baby furniture.

They move through the kitchen and living areas. Boxes of tiles are shoved in the far corner, and the floors are covered in dust and plastic. Wheeler runs his finger over the surface of the countertop, noting the protective saran wrap still on the microwave door.

“The property will be deep cleaned before handover,” the property manager explains: Sally, a petite blonde who barely looks a day out of high school. “The turf is being laid at the end of the week. Gardens the following week.”

Linka peers into the pantry. “Is there a date for… uh —”

“Completion?” the agent asks. “We anticipate the twenty-ninth of this month. Our client is keen to have the successful applicants move in soon after.”

“Oh,” Lin murmurs, disappearing into the lounge room.

Wheeler is left alone with the agent, who seems friendly and engaging in a non-pushy way. They talk for a few minutes until her phone rings, and Sally excuses herself and hurries off, disappearing into a back bedroom.

He moves through the house, searching for his wife. He finds her eventually, sitting on the front porch with her back against the wall, basking in the pleasant sunshine.

She grins when he approaches, raising her hand against the glare.

“Hey toots,” he grins back, taking a seat beside her.

“Can we offer them more?”

“What?” He blinks in surprise. “You mean rent?”

“I do not want to miss this like the last one —”

“What about the apartment with the ugly-ass windows next to the train line?”

“No, this is perfect —”

“Or the 1960’s timber kitchen in that shit heap by the main road?”

“No,” she laughs softly. “I really like it here,” she admits, clutching his hand excitedly. “I can see us here.”

He nods, breathing in the fresh air. There’s a bike track winding around the base of the mountain range that looms in front of them. They sit and watch the joggers and riders pass by for a while, and the young women in activewear pushing prams. People wander at their own pace at regular intervals, just going about their day… and Wheeler agrees with Lin’s sentiment.

He can definitely see themselves establishing a life here.

It’s a beautiful spot.

They’ll never own a home. He knows that. It’s one of the conditions of choosing to be with her. They’ll never be able to invest, or purchase things that they can’t take with them at a moments notice.

They can’t have money wrapped up in property in case they ever need to leave it behind. That’s one legacy that Blight has forced upon them, one that they can’t change. Renting will always be the safest long-term option.

But this place looks promising. Despite the tradesman’s tools lying around, and the security fencing, and the piles of dirt and rock in the front yard, it already feels like home.

“Can’t beat the view,” he sighs, slinging his arm across her shoulders while he waits for Sally to return to them.

* * *

“Have you seen —” Lin starts, rushing past the living area with a large box in her arms. “I... never mind.”

“You shouldn’t be lifting that.”

“It is not heavy —"

”Drop the damn thing. I’ll grab it in a minute,” he calls, and she lets go of it with a huff, muttering under her breath and stalking away.

He smirks but stays quiet.

Lin’s the most level-headed person he’s ever known, but the pregnancy hormones have turned her into a cranky, weepy and emotional mess lately.

“Fucking Ikea,” he grumbles, dismantling the side of the half-built television cabinet, since he’s screwed the panel on the wrong way around. “Stupid goddamn —"

“Maybe if you read the instructions —“

“Yeah, but why deny myself the right to whine about it?”

Lin rolls her eyes. She’s in her element — filling draws, cupboards and pantries with their belongings.

“Do you like the bath towels I bought?”

“Yeah, they’ll look great on the floor beside the bed after my shower,” he retorts, flipping the panel around and re-screwing it back in with the flimsy Allen key provided.

Lin pokes her tongue out at him. “You know how easy it is to place your towel on the rack, Yankee?”

“Says the woman who cleaned her teeth with moisturising cream last night.”

“The _Deep Heat_ was sitting right next to it,” she muses, disappearing into the baby’s room. “It could have been worse.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” he says, peering at his handiwork.

It still doesn’t look right. There are two panels left, and there shouldn’t be. He sits back on his haunches, scratching his head. In the end, he takes a break before he loses his shit and flings the stupid thing through the window.

The place is coming together. Having moved in the week before Christmas, they’re both overjoyed at the fortuitous timing.

They’ve trawled local yard sales for bargains and purchased a lot of their furniture second hand. Even the Christmas tree is recycled, sitting proudly in the corner with a sparse number of decorations hanging from the spindly branches. A few items are new, including the timber cot and change table, still boxed up in the back bedroom and leaning against the wall.

He’ll get to those over the Christmas break.

They’re in no hurry. They make an agreement not to buy one another presents this year, because between the bond and furnishing a home from scratch, they’ve exhausted their financial reserves.

But it doesn’t matter, because they finally have a home. They’re finally beginning a proper life of their own.

That’s the best present of all.

* * *

It’s a thirty-minute drive home from work on a good day. He cruises into their estate, waving to the old guy down the road who mows his lawn three times a week and is a little over committed for Wheeler’s liking.

Parking in the driveway, he grabs his gear and locks the car, wandering along the path to the front porch. Fumbling with his keys, he lets himself in and dumps his stuff by the door before heading down the hallway.

The kitchen is empty, but he can smell something delicious in the oven. Stomach rumbling, he takes a peek inside and finds a roast cooking to perfection, along with honeyed vegetables and potatoes.

“Yum,” he mutters, glancing around. “Where you at, toots?”

“Here,” she replies in a muffled voice. He finds her sitting stiffly on the couch with an empty spice jar clutched in her hand. She’s wiping tears away in front of the television, staring blankly at the screen and looking miserable.

“What happened?” he asks, alarmed. He sinks down beside her, checking her over worriedly. “You okay? Bub? Are ya hurt?”

“I dropped the parsley into the sink,” she sobs, as a fresh wave of tears starts. “I could not open it, and then it all came out at once. The whole lot tipped out into the water. I thought I had another jar but I don’t —"

He stares at her dumbly. ”Parsley?”

“I am so angry at myself —”

“Huh?” he says warily. “Hon, it’s a freakin’ herb. We can go without —"

“It is not just a herb!” she snaps back. “I needed it for tonight and —"

“Whoa,” he exclaims, holding his hand up. “Chill —”

“Do not tell me to chill —”

“Chook, I can go and grab some for you,” he remarks, unable to stop the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Just like I can also repair kitchen tongs when they break and close all the doors you’ve been leavin’ open lately.”

“ _Molchi!”_ she cries, burying her face in her hands. “I do not know why I am like this.”

“I still eat the brownies you make, even when you switch the flour and salt and it’s damn near unpalatable. I’m also adept at moppin’ up runny eggs these days when they smash on the floor —”

“Oh, stop…” she sobs again, but her tears are clearing up and she just looks embarrassed now. “Do not remind me —”

“You idiot,” he laughs, giving her a cuddle. “What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

“My fingers are so swollen,” she sniffles. “I cannot grip anything —”

“Neither can your brain,” he remarks, earning a slap for his efforts. “Still want some basil?”

“Parsley,” she grumbles.

“All right, kiddo,” he sighs, giving her a quick squeeze before getting to his feet, resigning himself to a short trip to the shops. “You want some ice cream, too?”

“Mint choc chip?” she says, her voice having perked up somewhat. “ _Spasiba!”_

“Back soon, psycho,” he calls, dodging a shoe flung in his direction as he heads back down the hallway.

* * *

Something wakes him.

He can’t remember the dream, but it involved him brokering an impressive deal selling vacuum cleaners to Arnold Schwarzenegger — the usual random shit that floats around his head in the dead of night. His eyes flutter open and he rolls blearily onto his side, tapping the button on the clock beside the bed.

_3am._

_“Goddammit,”_ he mumbles, closing his eyes again and hoping sleep takes over again, since he needs to be up in three hours anyway.

He feels Lin’s knees shift against the back of his legs and hears her sharp intake of breath. Flopping over to face her, he notes she’s curled into a foetal position, clutching her stomach, and her face is taut with pain.

“You allrigh’, babe?” he mumbles, rubbing his face and sitting up.

“Hurts,” she replies through gritted teeth. She’s rocking back and forth, sucking in air like there’s no tomorrow. “Can you rub my back?”

“Yep,” he sighs as she wriggles back against him. He kneads her lower back muscles for a while, but while it helps to alleviate her discomfort, it doesn’t stop the spasms like in previous nights.

“It hurts —”

“How long?”

“Since I went to bed,” she replies, seeming to experience a brief reprieve. “I thought it was just cramping. It is not going away like the other times.”

Wheeler bites his lip. “You reckon it’s show time?” 

“We still have three weeks to go —”

“I doubt peanut would have received the memo, babe,” he says, sweeping Lin’s hair out of her eyes. 

“The pain is coming and going,” she says, bracing herself as another wave hits her. “I do not know…”

“Have your waters broken?”

“I do not think so?”

Fully awake now, he shuffles forward on his knees, using his knuckles to apply firmer pressure to the small of her back as she grips the headboard with her clenched fingers. His calm, serene and pragmatic girl is slowly unravelling, and he’s concerned to say the least.

“Should we head in just in case?”

She bites her lip, before nodding.

Tossing the blankets off, he pushes himself to his feet and throws a tee shirt and jeans on. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end as he helps her up. The overnight bag is by the door, where it’s been sitting for the past few weeks, laden with clothes and hospital supplies.

Tossing it over his shoulder, he ushers Lin out the front door and to the car parked in the driveway.

By now it’s four am. It’s deathly quiet outside. He can smell the dew from the rain overnight, and a neighbour’s dog barks at the sound of the engine starting up. Before leaving the street, he glances back at their home, aware that two have departed, but if all goes well, three will return.

* * *

Once the effects of the nitrous oxide fade, the shower is the only things that helps with the pain. The cubicle is pretty small, but they squeeze in and make do.

They stand under the faucet for what seems like hours, her hands propped flat against the tiles. She’s bent over and shifting back and forth in just her bra and panties, breathing and groaning through the pain as the contractions hit harder.

His skin is wrinkled from the excess moisture and the angle is wreaking havoc with his back, but he soldiers on and shuts his mouth… because he’s not a complete asshole.

Their midwife checks in on them every now and then, a lovely woman in her fifties named Sharon with greying hair and a motherly disposition. She coaxes Lin unwillingly from the shower to check her progress, while Lin cusses them both out in Russian, just wanting to return to the salvation of cascading hot water on her back, but the despair is written on her face at the realisation that she’s only 6 cm dilated.

And so they return to the shower, back to the long, drawn-out process of childbirth.

It gets to the point where he’s propping her weight up during the particularly bad contractions, where she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, and her fingers are digging deeply into his shoulder blades; her nails drawing blood… and he feels completely fucking useless. Words of support feel redundant.

He suspects she’d kick him in the balls if he threw out a cheery “you can do it!” or a “you’re doing great, hon!”

So he holds her up with one arm and braces himself against the wall with the other, resting his chin on her shoulder until the time between contractions decreases, and the dilation check finally results in a thumbs up. The staff begin to arrive, pulling on scrubs and washing their hands, and Lin’s moved to the bed, her legs lifted into the calf supports and the IV bag moved to the pole above her head…

She’s gripping his hand hard enough to break bones when they tell her to start pushing…

And he knows that it’s go-time.

* * *

The ward is quiet.

It’s eleven PM and the kitchen rotation staff have delivered a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, along with apple juice in sealed cups. Starving, he devours his meal in one minute flat, but Lin’s remains untouched.

She’s finally asleep; lying on her side with an ice pack between her legs. Lin’s hair is bedraggled and plastered with sweat, but her face is relaxed and peaceful, courtesy of the painkillers they’ve dosed her up with.

Twelve stitches were needed after the delivery, but she was too distracted by their daughter’s arrival to really notice.

Lin’s breathing is slow and steady. Her hand is flung outward, her fingers curled around the little bundle wrapped up in the crib beside her.

Wheeler is too wired to sleep. He sidesteps around the bed and crouches down beside the cot. Peeking inside, he watches Hannah sleep, just as he’s done countless times in the hours since she was born.

He’s taken her for three walks around the maternity ward so far, pushing the cot around the halls and showing her off proudly to the night staff. His little peanut; having assumed they were having a boy all this time… but damn, ignorance is bliss.

He’s completely besotted. She has the most divine cherubic lips, a dainty nose and ears, and delicate, elfin features, just like her mother.

Perfect.

He can’t help himself. Stroking her cheek, he revels in the soft skin beneath his fingers, and the fine fuzz of hair on top of her head. Traces of vernix are still stuck to her forehead and hairline, and he scrapes them away gently as she begins to stir.

Hannah yawns. Her face scrunches up and she gives a thin, lusty cry, and he seizes the opportunity to lift her into his arms, holding her against his chest and walking the room, shushing her gently.

She weighs nothing at all, so small and fragile.

“Should I feed her again?” Linka mumbles, rolling over tiredly. His wife tries to sit up, and Wheeler shakes his head, taking a seat beside her on the double bed and encouraging her to lie back down again.

“Nah,” he says. “All good. Go back to sleep.”

Lin slumps back down again, exhausted, and he rocks Hannah slowly until she settles once more.

He beams down proudly at her, nuzzling her temple.

“G’night, peanut.”


	18. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had to be long. You know why xxx

It’s been four weeks since they returned home, four weeks of navigating this new version of normal.

It’s been a rough start.

Hannah naps sporadically during the day but screams the house down at night with the intensity of a manic banshee. They’re befuddled, grossly sleep deprived and winging it, taking each day (and night) as it comes.

Suffice to say they have no fucking clue what they’re doing. Nothing is working. They’re in survival mode now.

They take turns staying up, pacing the bedroom, or carrying her in their arms, or rocking her tiny body in the bouncer. They sing to her and spend far too much time re-wrapping her little arms back into the swaddling, because she’s a Houdini at tugging them out, but she never seems to settle.

At first, Lin takes it all in her stride… at least, as best she can. His wife sleeps during the day, when the baby sleeps, and it goes some way toward lessoning the effects of this forced change to their routine.

It only lasts for so long.

They hit a brick wall at the end of the third week and now they’re barely coping at all. He and Lin are both overwhelmed and irritable, and persevering as best as they can without any support networks available.

Neither have parents they can count on to help ease the pressure. They’ve made a few acquaintances, but they haven’t been here long enough to establish close friendships. The lawn is up to their ankles. The washing up remains in the sink, the clothes are piling up in the laundry, and the house looks like a bomb has gone off, but neither of them give a shit at this point.

Hannah screams every night, her little fists balled up and her knees drawn up against her belly until she wears herself out. During those brief, twilight moments of reprieve, she lulls them into a false sense of security, where they think _this is it_. She’s down for the count, and they can catch a small amount of shut eye.

Once their eyes are closed and the exhaustion has taken over, she begins to stir, and the wailing starts up again until the early hours of the morning. He understands at this point why sleep deprivation is regarded as a form of torture.

The elderly doctor says it’s a normal adjustment, spoken with an arrogant disposition and smug, condescending tones — implying that they are just naïve and whining about the general business associated with parenthood.

But this is something else.

Tonight, Wheeler has already done six hundred laps of the living area, before switching plans and bundling her out the front door, because Lin has broken down again and is weeping in the middle of their bed, her breasts over-engorged and painful because Hannah refuses to feed. So he walks the streets at three in the morning with his tiny tyrant, his little peanut, graced with an angelic face and a thousand-decibel set of lungs.

The next morning, he’s slumped over his corn flakes at the dining table, yawning and looking dishevelled. Hannah is sleeping restlessly in the portable cot nearby, and Lin is downing her third coffee since five this morning. The sticky remnants of peanut butter are smeared through her swept-up hair and she’s been wearing the same rumpled and stained tee shirt for three days straight.

“Do you think she has been in pain?” she asks suddenly, watching their daughter frowning in her sleep.

“Doc seemed to think it was nothin’.”

“She seems so unhappy —”

Wheeler looks away, staring at his soggy cornflakes again, recalling what the jerk-wad of a doctor told them. “Babies cry, apparently.”

“Not like this. She is miserable. Surely this cannot be normal?”

“I dunno,” he mumbles, because even with his limited experience with newborns, he didn’t expect _this_. 

“She has not slept for more than forty-five minutes since birth.” Linka sighs, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “I just do not know.”

Neither does he.

They don’t know what is ‘normal’. They have no basis for comparison. But it’s something to ponder, and they make a mental note to bring it up at the next post-natal check-up.

When Hannah is officially diagnosed with reflux the following week, he feels like cart-wheeling down the street naked. The relief is amazing, but the validation is even better, knowing that they weren’t over-reacting, or whining about the reality of parenting. Their amazing midwife recommends several supplements and sleeping aids, along with a mild form of medication, and they begin to see the results almost immediately.

She’s actually content when awake now, and responds to sights and sounds with wide, curious eyes. Hannah begins to sleep for longer stints, and they find themselves getting two to three hours at a time, which is a godsend compared to what they were used to. They read baby books and try to reverse the day and night confusion by limiting her naps during the day.

Things continue to improve, and they settle into a decent routine, with the odd four hour overnight thrown in for good measure. They’re no longer delirious with fatigue, and Wheeler is no longer falling asleep around heavy work machinery.

Life is great.

Hannah smiles for the first time at six weeks of age, lying beneath a baby gym with ring-pull toys dangling above her head, her chunky legs kicking wildly. She coos for Daddy when he arrives home each night, and when playing peak-a-boo, and when the neighborhood cat invites himself in and plonks itself down nearby, staring her down with benign interest.

At seven weeks of age, she sleeps through the night for the first time ever, a solid midnight until six-thirty run, and Linka is so happy she cries.

At nine weeks of age, Hannah discovers her hands, and spends her awake time grasping for anything within her reach, whether it be toys and remote controls, or Lin’s hair and earrings, or Wheeler’s sunglasses… and, unfortunately, his nostrils.

He’s never known pain like the insistent nasal archaeology his daughter inflicts upon his delicate mucus membranes.

The first month was a steep learning curve, but it’s all been smooth sailing from here.

Hannah is now a completely different baby. She’s placid and happy and content, and just precious. They say that babies are the best time wasters, and Wheeler is in complete agreeance with that statement. He loses track of the hours when she’s around, and they soak up the joy she brings to their lives.

She’s the best thing he’s ever contributed to this world.

* * *

“Hey Baldy,” he says loftily, dumping his bag by the door and passing Linka in the kitchen. The television is on and the house smells of cream and fried bacon, and his stomach is already rumbling. His daughter is lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows with a small cushion beneath her belly.

He gets down on all fours to join Hannah on the floor for some tummy time. Her head bobs up and down as she tries to raise herself, gracing him with a gummy smile and cooing happily, trying to reach for his face.

“Watch the nose,” he teases. “Ya look like a turtle, toots!”

“Uh, hello?” Linka’s amused voice floats over the documentary she’s watching. “Do I no longer receive a greeting?”

“Got my main girl here,” he remarks, giving Lin a sly grin. “Sorry. You’ve been relegated to back-up.”

“Wonderful.”

“Truth hurts.”

She chuckles, and the sound of chopping resumes — the knife glinting silver, visible from his spot on the floor. “Am I no longer worthy of attention and the odd compliment?”

“That depends,” he answers, swinging Hannah into his arms and getting to his feet, ignoring the creaking in his joints. “You plannin’ on usin’ that knife on me if you don’t agree with the answer?”

“I am considering it…”

He heads for the main bedroom, lifting Hannah above his head and blowing raspberries onto her exposed belly. Lin follows him in, smiling gently as Wheeler pretends to slam dunk their little girl onto the bed — albeit in a gentle fashion.

“She dodges and dives… she shoots… she scores!”

“We went shopping today.”

“Crowd goes wild," he laughs, tickling Hannah’s sides as she reaches for him.

“I bought her the most adorable outfit.” Taking a seat next to Hannah, Lin smiles down at her, stroking her cheek as he gets changed into sweatpants.

“Kid’s already got more clothes than I do,” he laments. Narrowing his eyes, he stares at Lin quizzically. “You get a haircut?”

“A little shorter,” she answers, touching the rich chocolate tones. “Do you like it?”

“Hell, yeah,” he says, rummaging through his clothes for a clean tee shirt. “How are things lookin’ online?”

“Good,” she answers. “Kroi and Dumbrov are both in the US. The software picked up Anatoli’s Visa card in Brussels, but he has since returned. Plunder is in South America.”

“With Bleak?”

“Nyet,” she frowns, running a hand through her hair. “No, Bleak has not moved for some time —”

“Asshole,” he grumbles, tossing his wallet and keys on the bedside table. “Piece of shit has probably retired to some island on someone else’s hard-earned dime —”

“All seems to be quiet,” she says hopefully, lifting Hannah onto her lap and cuddling her against her chest. “Are we going to book the tickets?”

He sighs, taking a seat beside them. “What do you think?”

“Two weeks to go,” she says softly. “The time has crept up on us —”

“Yeah, but are we openin’ ourselves up to potential issues?” He nods toward Hannah. “We’ve got stinky-pants to think about now —”

“She is not stinky!”

“You didn’t change last night’s diaper,” he mutters. “Atomic explosion all the way up her crack and back —"

“Oh God —"

“Was like a faecal Jackson Pollack painting."

“She is a lady!” Lin laughs indignantly, kissing the top of Hannah’s head. “She would never do that.”

“Romper was stuck to her skin. Had to peel that fucker off with rubber gloves while I’m dry retchin’ and —”

Linka dissolves into a fit of giggles.

Flopping down onto his back beside them, he folds his hands beneath his head. His daughter is perched in Linka’s lap, noisily blowing spit bubbles while attempting to jam her own fist into her mouth. Hannah’s cheeks are red, and it’s not long before her little saliva-moistened fingers are digging into Lin’s knuckles, leaving wet streaks on her skin.

Positioning Hannah between them, Lin lies down beside him, curling up on her side. She’s watching him expectantly, her green eyes wide and hopeful.

“Are we going?”

“If you think things are okay…” He strokes Lin’s hair away from her face as she wriggles closer. “It’s your call, Toots.”

“I want to see them,” she says huskily. “I need to know they are all right.”

“Some proper closure would be good,” he adds, and she nods eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Kay.”

“We will go?”

“I’ll book the flights tonight.”

Lin lets out a squeal. She presses herself close and tucks her head beneath his chin with a happy sigh, and he wraps them both up in his arms, kissing the top of Lin’s head and ignoring the babbling, wriggly worm wedged between them, vying for attention.

* * *

“Is that him?”

“Who?” he asks, shifting Hannah’s warm weight onto his other thigh.

“Kwame?”

Wheeler sneaks a surreptitious glance back. “No,” he retorts. “That guy’s a full foot shorter —”

“I am so nervous —”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he says, glancing at Linka’s foot jiggling from beneath the red checkered tablecloth. “Babe, you need to chill the fuck —"

“What if they do not come?”

“Then I get to enjoy a nice long weekend away with my ladies —”

“I am so nervous,” she repeats, her breath expelling long and hard. Dropping her forehead into her hands, Lin’s foot is still tapping away beneath the table. She looks so pretty tonight, clad in a low v neck navy blue dress that frames her cleavage in spectacular fashion. Red lipstick and a pair of elegant, rimmed reading glasses complete the outfit. “Why did we come early?”

“To scope the place out first. Your idea.”

“I know.”

“Just wait and see,” he says, wincing as Hannah’s chubby fingers start grasping the hairs on his arms. “It’s already past seven. We’ll give it another half hour and then reassess the situation.”

“All right.”

She smiles though, watching their daughter wriggling about delightedly on his lap, blathering nonsensical gibberish into the air. Hannah makes a grabbing motion toward the gleaming silver cutlery, and Wheeler slides the knife out of her reach.

“No weapons, toots,” he remarks, kissing the top of her head and breathing in that heady baby powder smell. “Not until you’re twelve.”

“Really?”

“Gang warfare. Jujitsu. Kamikaze knife throwin’. She’s learnin’ it all.”

Linka chuckles, taking a bite of the garlic bread they ordered whilst waiting. “Do you think they will recognise us?”

“Not a chance,” he says flatly, running a hand through his straw-blonde hair. He nods toward the loose chocolate-colored waves falling to Lin’s shoulders. “You know, you’ve got a sexy librarian vibe goin’ on these days.”

“Still a boy band reject.” She grins, adjusting her glasses. “Were we supposed to make a booking? Or was Kwame going to?”

“No idea,” he replies, leaning back in his chair and glancing around the busy establishment. “We didn’t really think that far ahead, to be honest.”

He remembers this place well.

The scent of garlic and roasted onion hangs low in the air, along with the low rabble of noise. It’s warm and softly lit, and packed with people; couples and families mostly, along with a few large birthday celebrations.

Balloons and gifts are piled high on the tables, along with the odd Italian cheer of good will.

They’ve renovated the place since they were last here. The restaurant has been extended to provide additional dining space. The mural on the far wall hasn’t changed, though, and the fairy lights outside twinkle prettily through the windows.

They’re tucked away in the corner of the room, with Hannah’s pram wedged in beside an indoor palm in a concrete pot. The branches brush lightly against Linka’s face each time she ducks inside the nappy bag for supplies.

Hannah’s little bald head is bowed forward. She bobs up and down, mouthing Wheeler’s hand with enthusiasm, leaving a trail of wet saliva on his skin.

“Ew, peanut.”

“Do you need another bib?”

“Nah. My shirt is catchin’ most of it.” He sinks back into his seat, wincing at the pressure Hannah’s gums are exerting on his fingers. “Think she’s cuttin’ another tooth.”

“Wonderful,” Lin sighs, fiddling with her napkin. “The last one took weeks to come through.”

“About to have my finger bones pulverised by our resident bulldog over here —"

“My heart bleeds for you.”

“Do you have any idea how hard she bites?”

“I am still breast feeding,” she says pointedly. “I am well aware…”

“ _I’m_ never that rough with ‘em —"

Linka smirks. “I beg to differ.”

“Might give ‘em bit of a nibble every now and then —"

“ _Ga_ …” Hannah interrupts, before screeching loudly and slamming her hands down on the table.

“Geez,” Wheeler mutters. “Tell us what you really think.”

Linka grins, glancing toward the entrance, and her body goes rigid.

“It was a joke, babe —"

“I think Ma-Ti just walked in,” Linka utters. She ducks down, taking a deep breath, and he turns his head in the most casual manner he can muster… and spots Ma-Ti straight away.

The moment hits him hard.

“Jesus,” he says, clutching Hannah tightly against his chest and watching his wife’s eyes fill with tears. He feels it too, the nerves and apprehension. It’s a visceral reaction. It feels like they’ve lived a whole lifetime in the eighteen months since fleeing.

It feels like a lifetime since he’s seen them.

“Is it him?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing back again as his pulse races. “Yeah, it is.”

“Do we go over —”

Wheeler runs a shaky hand through his hair, considering their options, feeling hot and sweaty all of a sudden. “Let’s just give it a minute.”

He glances back again as the maître D shows Ma-Ti to a table in the center of the room.

They watch Ma-Ti out of the corner of their eyes as he takes a seat, facing the opposite direction with his back to them. One of the rowdy parties is located between them, and Wheeler has to crane his neck to catch a glimpse through the balloons, waiters and hyperactive kids chasing one another around the restaurant.

“Fuck…” he sighs, rubbing his face and sneaking another look… and that’s when Gi and Kwame wander in.

Time seems to stop.

Linka remains seated, crying quietly, and he reaches for her hand and squeezes it gently.

Nothing could have prepared them for this.

They remain where they are, quietly tucked away in the corner, glancing at their long-lost friends as they settle into their seats, partly obscured by oblivious diners.

Wheeler takes in a deep breath. He risks another glance, not quite sure what to expect, but knowing something isn’t right…

Because they look miserable.

Absolutely miserable.

Gi’s face is pallid and her eyes downcast. Her hair is longer now, glossy and falling down her arms, but her body language is tense, almost ambivalent. Kwame hasn’t cracked a smile, just stares at the candle flickering in front of him, and Ma-Ti sits slumped in his chair with his head lowered. Wheeler can just make out the arm bands from where they’re sitting.

They’re barely talking to one another, and he’s not the only one to notice.

Linka looks baffled. “Why do they look like they are at a funeral?”

“Dunno…” he says warily. “Let’s just —"

Kwame’s eyes are already scanning the restaurant, and Wheeler falls silent, his pulse racing. They make eye contact for a brief moment, and he thinks that this is it. This is the moment of recognition…

This is where Kwame will leap from his seat.

He’s played the moment over and over in his head so many times. How it will go down, and their reactions. The happiness and joy and excitement as they share this brief moment in time.

He’s sure Lin has done the same… but their friend’s gaze moves on. Kwame glances away, focusing his attention on a young couple by the window of similar age and staring hard at them, before returning his attention to Gi and Ma-Ti, looking more dejected than before.

“He looked right at me,” Wheeler says, stunned. “Bastard didn’t even recognise —"

“What do we do?” she asks, her eyes still fixed on Gi. “Do we go over —"

In all honesty, he’s at a loss. Random possibilities pop into his head unbidden, and none of them are particularly pleasant.

Are they here under duress? Has Blight been biding her time, waiting to flush them out? Is this another example of her ever-present reach?

Did Blight get to their friends first? Have they sold Linka out? Made a deal with the devil for a quick buck?

Wouldn’t be the first time someone has set them up or betrayed them. Trust and integrity seem to a diminishing trait these days.

Or do the trio sitting glumly merely thirty feet away simply resent being here? Have they moved on with their lives? Have they left the old life behind them and have better places to be? Or better people to see?

This is by far the most unpalatable option, and Wheeler swallows nervously.

Linka sinks back into her chair, seeming to retreat further behind the indoor palm foliage. “Maybe we should —“

“Got any ideas?”

“Should we take her and go?” she whispers, clutching Hannah’s hand from across the table. “There was no one on the radar this morning, but maybe something has changed —"

Wheeler is rattled to say the least. His instincts have served him well in the past, and right now, alarm bells are ringing —

There’s movement nearby.

Kwame stands, appearing to excuse himself as he heads for the bathroom, and Wheeler holds his breath, debating on what to do next. It takes him all of five seconds to make a decision.

“Take her, babe,” he grunts, passing Hannah’s flailing body over to Linka. “Don’t move. Gimme a minute…”

She nods, clutching the baby against her chest, and he gets to his feet and strides away from the table.

He follows Kwame, keeping his distance, shouldering through the door and entering the bathroom. There are five small cubicles within and the middle door is already closed. The sounds of shuffling can be heard, and Wheeler can’t help but roll his eyes; recalling Kwame’s bodily functions with vivid clarity.

He stands with his back to the toilets, pumping the soap dispenser and washing his hands thoroughly, willing himself to remain calm. In the mirrored reflection, he can see a large pair of sneakers peeking out from the bottom of the cubicle.

Kwame goes about his business for several more minutes, before the toilet flushes and the lid slams closed.

Wheeler swallows, feeling nervous as all hell. He keeps his head down as Kwame emerges finally, adjusting his pants and approaching the sink. The miserable look remains on his face as he pulls up three basins down from Wheeler.

He washes his hands and dries them, and Wheeler watches him in the mirror, fascinated, noting his longer, corn-rolled hair and the jagged facial scar that has faded with time. Giving Wheeler a cursory glance in the mirror, Kwame heads for the door and disappears back into the restaurant, the door swinging gently in his wake.

Wheeler straightens; his heart thumping a million miles an hour as he stares at his own reflection.

_Well, that was anti-climactic as fuck._

Leaning back against the counter, he glances around the now empty bathroom, not really sure what he was expecting but knowing that sure as hell wasn’t even remotely close to —

And the door swings open again, and a figure rushes back in, the same man now framed in the doorway. Wheeler hears his name out loud; his birth name, spoken with shocked disbelief and wonder.

A beat passes. All Wheeler can do is stare back, clutching the rim of the basin, momentarily lost for words.

Wheeler lets out a surprised grunt as a solid wall of chest slams into him. He’s thrown off balance, and they stagger sideways together, hitting the side of the end cubicle, rattling the melamine off flimsy hinges.

“My friend!” comes the strangled response, along with the scent of woody aftershave, and Wheeler finds himself lifted off his feet, but more to the point, he realises that this is Kwame, in the flesh.

Kwame is here, and he is crying.

Solid, unflappable Kwame is crying, his whole body shaking to such a degree that Wheeler’s arms slide around his waist in an effort to hold him up.

“My friend,” he sobs hoarsely, clenching his fists into Wheeler’s shirt, and he’s shocked to feel Kwame’s tears wet on his neck. Kwame hugs him tighter, his cries muffled against Wheeler’s shoulder.

“Hey, K-man,” Wheeler says softly, and his words only serves to exacerbate the situation.

“We thought the worst… we thought —” Kwame can hardly speak, his voice cracking under the strain. He hugs Wheeler tighter. “Ohhh… we had lost hope —”

“C’mon, man,” Wheeler eventually replies, patting him on the back as Kwame dries his eyes and attempts to compose himself. “People are gonna think we’re up to no good —"

“Is she here?” he interrupts, glancing back toward the restaurant. “Is Linka all right —”

“She’s here,” Wheeler says. “We’re both here. We’re all right —”

Kwame lets out a heavy breath of sheer, unadulterated relief. He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair, staring hard at Wheeler and taking in the changes before him.

“My God. Look at you. I cannot even begin to —” he begins, shaking his head with a sigh. “I barely recognised you. We did not see —"

“We’re literally sittin’ three tables away, ya moron,” he retorts. “You looked right at me at one point —"

Kwame barrels into him again, slapping him on the back. “Oh, you cannot imagine how relieved they are going to be —”

“Figured as much,” he says. “The three of you look like you’re here for a colonoscopy —"

“We thought you were both dead,” he sighs, rubbing a shaky hand over his face. “We came here to honour our promise, but we held so little hope —”

“Why? What made you think —?”

“It is a long story.” Kwame places his hand on Wheeler’s shoulder, eyeing him with an intimidating level of intensity. “But knowing what we know, I am guessing you both had a rough start to your new life?”

“That’s an understatement,” Wheeler mutters, eyeing a lanky dude who views them suspiciously as he disappears into a cubicle. “C’mon, man. People are gonna think we’re romantically involved.”

Kwame laughs, slapping Wheeler between the shoulder blades. They head out together, one after the other, and Kwame is already craning his neck, searching for someone.

Searching for _her._

“Where —”

Wheeler points, and Kwame’s eyes finally settle on Lin, who sits tucked away in the corner behind the pot plant, a shy grin lighting up her face.

“Oh my —” Kwame murmurs, stunned, seeing Hannah for the first time propped proudly in her lap. “Oh…”

Kwame stumbles toward them, as if in a dream. He sinks to his knees beside Lin, touching her cheek in wonder, wiping away the tears that are already tracking down her skin. He embraces her, their foreheads touching, talking softly and smiling through their tears, with Hannah’s small body wedged between them.

The others have started to take notice.

Ma-Ti staggers to his feet, but his legs seem to give way underneath him. He slips to the floor with a thud, but he’s up again in a heartbeat, striding across the floor and tackling Wheeler with a strangled shout.

Hannah is already cradled in Kwame’s arms, and he coos to her delightedly. After what seems like several minutes, Wheeler passes Ma-Ti onto his wife. Lin is dragged to her feet and hauled roughly into Ma-Ti’s arms. He holds her tightly as they sway on the spot, and he mumbles something unintelligible into her hair.

Wheeler turns his attention to Kwame’s table, noting that Gi hasn’t moved.

She stands, stiff and uncertain, taking it all in. Gi’s shocked face is only just visible through the balloons and drunken Italians, her handbag clutched against her chest.

He crosses the floor, weaving his way toward her, and suddenly she’s there, her mouth open and her eyes wide with disbelief, staring at him.

“Hey, Bubbles,” he says softly, and she blinks in recognition, the spell all but broken. He wraps her up in his arms, feeling how small and slight she is, and he feels her heavy exhalation of breath on his chest as her own arms go around him.

Gi bursts into tears.

* * *

The food and drink are flowing. They eat like they’ve never eaten before.

Arancini balls and fettuccini carbonara. Gnocchi and risotto ai gamberoni. They eat Bruschetta and sample the dreaded tomato dish Kwame has ordered, and the unholy amount of chilli he has requested.

And Wheeler wonders out loud if Kwame will be travelling home tonight via the jet-propelled chilli-rocket exploding out of his ass, and Gi snorts so loud she inhales her food.

They drink wine from the Tuscany region, with big, long names they can’t pronounce, and they laugh hysterically while catching up. Gi takes an unreasonable number of photos on her new camera, posing them in a variety of positions until Kwame tells her to knock it off before he shoves it up her derriere.

“They’re for my new album!” she laughs, shoving Kwame hard. “Don’t kill my buzz!”

They play pass the parcel with the grumpy six-month-old doing the rounds on everyone’s laps and held aloft in everyone’s arms.

They dote on Hannah, entertained as she tries to steal the food from their plates and chew on their fingers, leaving trails of dribble running down their hands. They play peak-a-boo, and a tug of war erupts at one point between Gi and M-Ti, which turns into a verbal sledging match of epic proportions.

And there comes a point when Hannah has had enough, and she wails loudly for her mother. Linka retrieves her overtired child, feeding her discreetly beneath a light gauze wrap, while Gi in turn feeds Linka the pasta already cooling on the plate in front of her, since her hands are indisposed.

“Milk bar’s open for business,” Wheeler observes, slinging an arm around his wife’s shoulders, and Kwame grins happily at the three of them, looking suspiciously misty-eyed.

And for one night… just for one night, it feels like old times.

* * *

“Married in Santorini,” Gi sighs, grabbing Linka’s hand and inspecting her engagement ring. “I never would have believed it.”

“I am still recovering from the baby,” Kwame laughs, glancing fondly at their daughter, fast asleep in the pram beside Lin. “I never thought I would see the day —”

“Not my kid,” Wheeler declares, reaching for another beer. “She fucked a bartender in Europe —"

“I did not,” Linka giggles, slapping him.

“She is just beautiful,” Kwame says. “I am so happy for the two of you.”

“Was she planned?” Gi asks, reaching in and smoothing her hand over Hannah’s fine fuzz of hair.

“Hell no.”

“She was unplanned, but is very much loved and wanted,” Linka says, smiling. “It was meant to happen.”

“I can see that,” Ma-Ti grins. He shakes his head, bewildered at the recent turn of events. “I am still in shock at seeing you both. We honestly thought you were both lying dead at the bottom of a landfill somewhere.”

“Not through lack of tryin’,” Wheeler laments.

“What happened?” Kwame sits back in his chair, pinching his hands into a steeple. “What on earth happened to the two of you?”

“What _didn’t_ happen,” Wheeler sighs, nodding toward Linka. “Absolute nightmare gettin’ this one out.”

“We assumed you had both been killed.”

“Why?”

Gi winces at the memory. She leans forward and watches them closely. “Within forty-eight hours of the two of you leaving, we were all hauled before a room of freaked out, panicking federal agents, blathering about protocols being breached and an unidentified infiltration on a safe house in Virginia —”

“They said there had been a hit,” Kwame says. “That the two of you were missing. The room had been overturned and there were signs of a violent struggle. The apartment had been established as a crime scene —”

Ma-Ti winces at the memory. “They brought us in… it looked like a war zone. The place had been torn apart —”

“I found one of your sweatshirts by the side of the bed, Wheeler,” Kwame says, grimacing. “My heart sunk. That was the first indication that something had gone wrong.”

“Lin, your laptop was found smashed to pieces,” Gi says, wiping tears away. “I was asked to identify it.”

“Oh no —” Linka starts. “Oh —"

“They found blood in the room, matching both of your DNA samples,” Ma-Ti says softly. “Two guards were found shot to death and stashed in the maid’s closet at the end of the hall. Dead bodies were washing ashore the following week. We thought the worst —"

“Dead bodies?” Linka asks, peering hard at Ma-Ti. “Who?”

“Some B-grade guy with a criminal record the length of my arm was found floating in the Potomac river.”

“Your driver’s licence was found in his pocket, Linka,” Kwame says gravely. “This was all kept out of the police report, but —”

“Who the hell would that have been?” Wheeler asks, glancing at Lin.

“I do not know,” Linka utters.

“— they assumed he had done the deed.”

“Don’t know who that would have been.” Wheeler leans back in his seat, utterly floored. “We gave up all our ID before we made a run for it. They were supposed to shred it —”

“An agent assigned to the initial SAIP infiltration was killed, too,” Ma-Ti says. “David Coulter? He’d been shot through the head, execution style. I think he might have been an analyst you worked with —”

Wheeler trades glances with Linka, who looks both shocked and appalled.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “It could not be —"

“Deputy Dave,” Wheeler groans, throwing his head back. “They killed him…”

“Who killed him?”

Wheeler lets a deep breath out. “Bastard.”

“Kroi,” Linka says softly, drumming her fingers on the table. “Andrei Kroi was there. He turned up at the apartment we were sent to.”

A deathly silence hangs over them. Gi looks like she’s going to be sick, and Kwame rubs his face, appalled at the turn of events.

“Kroi?”

“Whole thing was a big ‘ol set up,” Wheeler sighs.

“Okay,” Ma-Ti utters, glancing at Kwame. “All right. This is making more sense.”

“We barely lasted twenty-four hours with the Feds,” Wheeler admits. “Kroi and his buddies knew exactly where to find us.”

“You think someone tipped him off?”

“We assumed it was Deputy Dave,” he says, unable to get the image of his bloated corpse floating down the Potomic. “Guessin’ the bastard paid the price for failin’ to deliver.”

“The DNA evidence.” Kwame frowns. “What about the blood —”

“We had to fight our way out,” Linka explains. “Wheeler’s wound split open again. He was bleeding everywhere.”

“You hit the floor, too, babe. Cut your forehead.”

“Jesus,” Gi whispers. “I can’t believe we had no idea… What happened with Kroi? How did you get away?”

“Went down for coffee and happened to spot the bastard sneering at the receptionist in the foyer,” Wheeler says, wincing at the memory. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. Caught the lift straight back up. Deputy Dave tried to stop us from leavin’. Waved a gun in our faces, and it was on like Donkey Kong —"

“Oh Wheeler —” Ma-Ti whispers. “Oh my God —"

“Literally got her out by the skin of my teeth.”

“So I’m guessing the analyst was killed —”

“— in retaliation, I’m guessin’.”

“Then who was the other man?” Linka asks, confused. “The one with my driver’s licence?”

“Who the hell knows,” Wheeler says, rubbing his forehead. It’s all too much to take in. “May have been one of the other guys the Feds mentioned, keen to take up Blight’s offer.”

“Coffee?”

“Hmm?”

Gi stares at him curiously. “You made it out… because you went downstairs for coffee?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t drink coffee?”

“I sure as hell do now.”

Nervous laughter breaks the tension.

“We had a five-minute head start,” Linka says solemnly, playing with the checkered tablecloth. “If Wheeler had not gone down, we would not be here to tell the story.”

“What happened after?” Ma-Ti asks. “How did you —"

“Blight shut down out accounts. We had no ID. Very little cash. First couple of weeks was an absolute nightmare.”

“I was locked out of my account, too,” Gi says, glancing at Kwame. “So were you. We assumed it was a final ‘fuck you’ from Blight.”

“Easy enough for us to reverse, however.”

“Not so much for us, unfortunately,” Wheeler mutters. “We spent a lot of that time slummin’ it —"

“And gravely ill,” Linka finishes for him, touching his face lovingly. “I nearly lost him again.”

“I am so sorry,” Kwame says, looking aggrieved. “We knew none of this…”

“We’ve done okay,” Wheeler says. “Things got better. We’ve had a couple of close misses and false starts along the way. Things are good, now.”

“Where are you living?” Ma-Ti asks.

“Siberia,” Wheeler says. “Portable igloo. Drafty in the winter months —”

Gi starts cackling, and Ma-Ti only nods, smiling, understanding in that moment that their current whereabouts need to remain a mystery.

“Have you heard from my brother?” Linka asks worriedly.

“The last time I spoke to Mishka was just after you had left,” Kwame sighs. “I know the Bureau had contacted him, too. I am afraid he drew the same conclusions that we did when given the facts.”

“Oh no —”

“He was distraught to say the least —"

“Do you have contact with him? Are you able to let him know that we are —”

“The number he gave me is no longer connected. I know he was having issues with a white van parked outside. There were people following him. He was receiving threatening phone calls. The last time I spoke to him, he mentioned he was planning on disappearing.”

“Why would they have gone after him if they thought we were dead?”

“The agency thought you were dead,” Kwame replies. “Knowing what we know now, it was probably Kroi.”

“Hindsight can be an awful thing,” he says, reaching for Linka’s hand and squeezing it. “I am so sorry, my friend.”

“Do you know where Mishka was going?”

“London, from what I believe,” he says. “But if he makes contact again, I will tell him you are safe.”

She nods, wiping her eyes from beneath her glasses. “Might as well be on the other side of the moon…”

* * *

“What is in the box?” Kwame asks curiously.

“Letters,” Wheeler replies, his gaze drifting to Gi and Linka, who can be seen through the tempered glass windows at the table inside. They’re still tucked away in the corner and practically sitting on one another, rifling through the inlaid timber box Lin has lugged halfway across the world. “She’s been writin’ Gi every week for quite a while.”

“Eighteen months of memories,” Kwame smiles. “A lovely sentiment.”

“Lin’s missed her.”

“Gi has been a wreck these past eighteen months.”

Wheeler stretches, scuffing the soles of his shoes back and forth along the weathered brick beneath his feet. They’re seated in the courtyard, perched on the concrete edge of the water fountain. The fairy lights twinkle above their heads and the fountain’s gentle splashing noises are soothingly resplendent. It’s well after midnight and only a few customers remain, sipping coffee while the wait staff loiter around the kitchen window, talking.

“Saw Big Blue on the TV over in Ecuador last week,” Wheeler remarks. “Hammin’ it up for the cameras.”

“I get the feeling he is having to prioritise what events he attends.”

“Environmental triage,” Wheeler sighs. “I know the feelin’.”

“We did a lot of that toward the end, didn’t we?”

“Yep.”

“Corporations and conglomerates. The politicians were just as bad as the regular run of the mill law breakers.”

“Only gonna get worse.”

“I am afraid so… especially without Gaia’s guidance.”

“We’re doomed, aren’t we?” he says glumly, scuffing his shoes some more. “As a species, ya know? We were never gonna put a halt to anything. I think our job was always to slow things down before the inevitable happens.”

“Perhaps not be in our lifetime, or our children’s… but our successors will pay the price.”

“We did the best we could.”

Kwame sighs. “They say the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. _”_

“That’s deep,” Wheeler chuckles. “You started writin’ Hallmark cards, man? Cuz that’s a real winner.”

“Not mine,” Kwame laughs. “But it is a quote that has always resonated with me.”

“Yeah, figures,” Wheeler smiles. “I saw you, maybe twelve months ago? Lin found a newspaper article with you and a team of developers makin’ wells.”

“Really?” Kwame seems surprised. “You saw that? Yes… that was a while ago.”

“What are ya doin’ now?”

“Same job. I work for an NGO out of Nairobi, managing portfolios and coordinating projects. We’re building homes in Mumbai currently, then we are off to Mogadishu.”

“Still fightin’ the cause?”

“Keeps me sharp,” he says, tapping his head. “Keeps me from dwelling on things for too long. Besides… I can never be one of those men who do nothing.”

“I guess that was Gaia’s motto all along. Just overwhelmed her in the end.”

“Sometimes I still feel her presence,” Kwame says softly. “A breeze, or the hairs on the back of my neck will stand on end for no reason. Or I will catch a glimpse of something I cannot explain or rationalise… but then I wonder if it is all in my head.”

“Lavender…”

“Hmm?”

Wheeler smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ve had a couple of lucky breaks since leavin’. Moments we really shouldn’t have had. Situations we shouldn’t have walked away from. I’d normally chalk it up to happy coincidences, or blind fucking luck… but I ain’t that lucky, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lavender,” he says. “Right before any major shit was due to go down… a freakin’ bouquet right under my nose. Like a warning, ya know?”

“Really?”

“Not always a good thing,” he chuckles. “These days, I can’t walk past a garden in a local park without getting’ spooked. Sends me straight into fight or flight mode.”

“Lavender.” Kwame looks pensive. “Do you think it was Gaia on these occasions?”

“I dunno,” he ventures. “But sometimes? I think there’s somethin’ left, ya know…”

“There _is_ something left,” he smiles, placing a consolidatory hand between Wheeler’s shoulder blades. “I still cannot believe you are both here. I honestly never thought we would be having this conversation.”

“I know…”

“I wondered if they had shot you,” Kwame says huskily, glancing away. “Or drowned you, or if they had plunged a knife through your heart and carved you into pieces. I wondered what your final moments must have been like. I tortured myself with the finer details…”

“Jesus, man —"

“I wondered, for the longest time, what they had done to her. If she had cried. If she had suffered before being delivered to Blight… or after, for that matter.” He glances in Linka’s direction. “I recalled the long conversations I had with her over the years. Her kindness, and her quiet, stoic nature. I remembered her positive outlook and the fact she never complained about the circumstances life threw at her.”

“That’s true.”

“I remembered the way she used to study the details of whatever interested her…” Kwame chuckles, eyeing him keenly, “… and that includes you, my friend, when she thought no one was looking… because she took the time to study _you_ the most.”

Wheeler is floored.

“The rage I felt was the worst,” he says quietly. “Seven years… we were operating under the assumption that you barely even had forty-eight hours together. It was just so terribly unjust and unfair.”

“Geez, man —"

“All these memories… they contrasted terribly with the things I imagined you went through at the end… I blamed myself for the longest time —”

“How the hell could you blame yourself —”

“This happened on my watch,” he says gravely. “The decisions I made for the group. The positions I put us all into. Had I known it would have ended the way it did —"

“We all went willingly. We all signed up for the same thing, man —”

“Linka never signed up for a death warrant, my friend. Neither did you.”

Wheeler stays silent, not quite knowing what to say. He takes in a deep breath, watching Ma-Ti heading toward them juggling three hot drinks.

“I think your mind makes it worse,” Kwame says quietly. “You take the evidence left behind at the safe house, and the bare facts… You see the blood, and the violence, and the guilty faces staring at you. You spend the next eighteen months twisting and shifting and shaping everything you know into the most horrific… yet entirely plausible scenarios. You connect the dots and draw your own conclusions... and death is the only logical assumption one can muster in that situation.”

“Far from it.”

“I have never been so happy to be wrong.” Kwame grins. “And a child, no less —”

“Yeah, that was a pretty major whoopsie —"

“A welcome one, no doubt.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Poor kid is stuck with Lin’s looks and my temper. God help us when she’s older.”

“Will you have any more?”

“Happy to just keep practicin’ for the moment.” He eyes Kwame curiously. “You with anyone Kwame?”

“No,” he says plainly. “No. These days, I prescribe to the ‘solitary hermit’ way of living.”

“Self-imposed?”

“It is easier that way.”

“Why?”

Kwame doesn’t answer, just stares down at his shoes. Wheeler understands the sentiment, and where it probably comes from.

“Maybe it’s time to let go of the past, man?”

Kwame lets out a heavy sigh and nods, moving aside as Ma-Ti lowers a tray onto the ledge beside them.

“They had run out of expresso grounds, Kwame.” Ma-Ti is somewhat out of breath as he hands out the large mugs. “I had to improvise.”

“What the fuck is that?” Wheeler retorts, taking the offered mug and staring at the lashings of whipped cream dubiously.

“Crema di Caffè —”

“Crema de-what?”

“It looked interesting!” Ma-Ti laughs as the girls join them, laden with everyone’s belongings, having cleared the table. “My apologies if it does not live up to the standards of Mr Coffee connoisseur over here…”

“He likes coffee, now.” Linka parks the pram beside the fountain and sinks down onto Wheeler’s lap. She kisses his cheek, and he can smell the strong scent of wine on her breath. “He says it gives him an edge.”

“Only when dodgin’ dumb-ass Ukrainians,” he mutters, sliding his arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck with a sigh.

Gi watches them curiously. “This is still so weird. Nice,” she clarifies,” but weird.”

“Why?”

“Never really got to see you guys _together_ , you know. Actin’ all lovey dovey —”

“Sickening, really,” Ma-Ti laughs.

“There was always affection —"

“Yeah,” Gi says patiently. “And there was hostility. Tantrums. Smart-ass remarks. Jealousy. The occasional pushing and shoving match —”

“We knew it would come to a head, one day,” Kwame laughs. “Although granted, we did not expect things to culminate the way that it did that final —”

“What? Soakin’ wet and goin’ at it like wild animals on the bathroom floor?"

Kwame’s eyes go wide. “No!” he says, flustered, while Gi falls about laughing beside him. “No, I was talking about that last day in the group in general —"

“So was I!” Wheeler laughs, ignoring the slap his wife gives him. “We got back to the apartment and you guys must have hauled ass —”

“We wanted at least a one mile-buffer zone while the two of you were getting it on —” Gi giggles.

“Oh my god,” Linka says, mortified. “That is so embarrassing —"

“It is fine, Linka,” Kwame assures her. “Fine. We chose to accept the fact you were playing a sedate game of chess in your pyjamas while we were gone.”

Wheeler snorts. “Chess, huh?”

“Yes,” he replies, his eyes boring into Wheelers, as if daring him to object. “You played chess while we were gone, Wheeler. Chess. It is the reality I choose to accept.”

“Chess is a game of strategy,” Gi giggles, her face pink from laughing too hard. “I doubt Red possessed the intelligence to formulate —"

“What?” he sputters indignantly while Ma-Ti wheezes with laughter beside him. “Goddamn, girl. I lined up my bishop. Moved him horizontally. Knocked my queen off her feet… and knocked her up, for that matter.”

“Yankee!” Linka hisses, blushing hard.

“I’d call that a checkmate —”

“Oh god, stop,” Gi cackles, wiping her eyes. “Oh god, you two haven’t changed a bit —”

“Yeah, I recall ‘oh god’ bein’ spoken on more than one occasion, too —”

Kwame clears his throat, and Gi pats him on the back, grinning.

“I still haven’t forgotten Ma-Ti’s face,” she giggles, leaning against a nearby lamp post, “at the bar that same night. He’s halfway through his meal… and then he puts his fork down, stares off into space and slides his ring off without saying a word —”

“Stuffed it into his pocket,” Kwame chuckles. “Then when that did not work, he placed it on the table… then in the end, he walked to the other side of the dining room and wedged it beneath a payphone, then went back to his food.”

“Couldn’t get it far enough away,” Gi adds gleefully.

“I never tended to sense things of an intrusive nature regarding any of you,” Ma-Ti laughs, almost apologetically. “But needless to say… an exception was made that night by the powers that be —”

Linka covers her face with a groan.

“It is fine,” Ma-Ti assures her. “I was able to finish my meal —”

“Priorities,” Gi teases, as Linka gets to her feet, intent on tending to Hannah who is stirring in the pram. She’s bright red and can barely look anyone in the eye.

“Okay,” Wheeler chuckles. “All right. Movin’ on, before someone melts into the floor.”

“Too late,” Kwame says, smiling as he sips his creamy drink.

“What are ya doin’ with yourself, bubbles?” he asks. “Still causin’ the usual ruckus? Breakin’ hearts all over south-east Asia?”

“Went back home for a while,” she says, sinking down onto his recently vacated lap and slinging an arm around his neck. She cuddles into him with a sigh. “Moved out with a couple of roommates at the beginning of the year. Sardine-box of an apartment with no central heating.”

“Single?”

“I was dating a guy for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why?” Linka asks.

“Because her standards were too high, more than likely,” Kwame smiles.

“The guy leeched off me for twelve months until I kicked him out,” she says. “He was a tad clumsy, too.”

“You dumped the man for being clumsy?” Kwame says, shocked.

“No. I dumped the man for repeatedly tripping over and ‘falling’ into another woman’s vagina,” she says sharply, staring directly into Kwame’s shocked face, as if daring him to challenge her. “I’d call that a tad clumsy. Wouldn’t you?”

“Stand up guy,” Wheeler mutters, glancing at Linka awkwardly.

“Always an accident,” Gi says loftily. “He didn’t mean it... apparently”

“I am so sorry, Gi…” Linka ventures, but Gi shrugs it off.

“She can have him,” she says flatly.

“You workin’, Gi?” Wheeler asks, changing the subject for everyone’s sake.

“I work for an investigative law firm. Research and maritime law, mostly. Some undercover work. Checking that contracts have been honoured and legislation has been followed. I do the groundwork in case it has to go to litigation. We catch a fair few out.”

“Sounds enthralling.”

“I like it,” she says. “We’re checking into the legalities of a tuna company at the moment. Destructive fishing methods and a lack of sustainability practices, even though their marketing says otherwise.”

“Fish, huh?”

“Yep!”

“No surprises there,” Wheeler chuckles, shifting Gi higher up to relieve the ache in his leg. “What about you, monkey man?”

“I have paid my dues and fulfilled my obligations,” Ma-Ti says quietly. “The best place for me is with my people…”

“Unless he’s worrying about Kwame and I from afar and walking twenty-seven miles to call us from the nearest town with a phone signal,” Gi chuckles. “Still a mother hen.”

“We tried to catch up when we could,” Kwame says, glancing up at the last customers to vacate the premises, a middle-aged couple. “But it was never the same.”

“We have closure now.” Ma-Ti grins at them happily. “We can breathe a little easier.”

“This is the only time you will see us,” Linka says softly. “We cannot risk it again. We have established new lives and new identities. The less you know, the better.”

The lights are turned off above their heads, plunging them into darkness, and Wheeler eyes a few of the restaurant staff who wander past, heading to their cars.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome, people.”

“It is two in the morning,” Ma-Ti observes, yawning widely almost as if to prove a point. “The night has gotten away from us…”

“I think it is time to make a move, my friends” Kwame says, somewhat reluctantly. He gets to his feet and stretches, grinning widely at them. “The restaurant is well and truly closed.”

“We haven’t paid —” Wheeler begins, gesturing toward the darkened restaurant and seeing only blocky shapes moving around within, busy with mops. The sound of a vacuum cleaner can be heard. “Wait —”

“It is taken care of,” Kwame says firmly, ignoring Wheeler’s frustrated groan.

“Dude, you are seriously —”

“We shall call it the “ _resurrected from the dead_ ” tax.”

“Does that not mean that we should be paying?” Linka teases.

“No,” Kwame laughs as they stand and file out onto the street. It’s quiet at this time of night, with only the odd car and taxi sailing past. They stand on the footpath, huddled together, almost dreading what needs to happen next.

“Downtown or uptown?”

“Dunno. We’re that way,” Wheeler says, jacking his thumb toward the distant glow of the cityscape in the distance.

“We had better let you go,” Kwame says softly. “We have already drawn you out for long enough. As much as it grieves me to say goodbye again, it is not safe for you —"

“Different outcome this time, though,” Ma-Ti says, helping Linka gather her things together as Gi flags them a cab.

There’s a lot of giggling and enthusiastic cuddles going on nearby. Ma-Ti and the cab driver are attempting to fold down the pram, and Gi is cradling Hannah close to her chest, smothering his daughter with kisses.

Kwame seizes the opportunity and beckons Wheeler aside, away from the others. He passes a small piece of paper to Wheeler before he has the chance to question it.

“My new number, in case you ever need it —”

“I won’t be usin’ it, man. I can’t —”

“I know,” he explains patiently. “And I know Blight keeps tabs on us, and that disappearing again is the only option available to you… but if anything happens —”

“I wont be ringin —”

“If something happens, or a situation arises and you need help,” he says, stuffing it into Wheeler’s shirt pocket. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “If there comes a time when Blight and Kroi are no longer a threat. I guess knowing there is still a chance of connection if your circumstances change. I would feel better if you had it.”

Wheeler nods, and they embrace tightly, ignoring the other three who are still stuffing around beside the cab.

“You had better go.”

“Live a little, man,” he says, slapping him on the back. “Take some time for yourself. No more livin’ like a hermit.”

“All right.”

“Don’t let Blight or anyone else take that away from you. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

“And you live your best life,” Kwame hums. “That is the best payback of all.”

They all say their final goodbyes, hugging one another fiercely. The cab is packed with their bags and belongings and the driver is waiting somewhat impatiently. Ma-Ti wraps his arms around Gi as she clutches her prized letters against her chest, grinning wider than a Cheshire cat. She waves them goodbye as they climb into the back seat with Hannah.

His arms go around Lin, recalling the last time they were in this position and the trauma that followed. He pulls her against his chest, whispering to her. Reassuring her. The van pulls away and they both glance out the back window, desperate to see their faces one last time.

And Wheeler’s mouth drops open as he witnesses the last vestige of restraint slip from their friends grasp. They’re jumping up and down madly on the sidewalk, holding one another and screaming for joy, having contained themselves for only so long.

“Holy shit,” he blurts out as they disappear from view. “Did that really happen?”

“Did you see —” Linka bursts out laughing. “I cannot believe —”

“Crazy bastards —”

He slides an arm across his wife’s shoulders, settling his gaze on the road ahead. He can move on now. That one, persistent void in their life has been filled.

And it is an utterly glorious feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to S, my consistent reviewer and most vocal supporter. Thank you for your beautiful words. You keep me going within this lovely, yet very quiet fandom!


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